


kind and courteous is a life i've heard

by quixotesque



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Past Abuse, Punishment, Slow Build, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 135,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonding doesn't have to change anything. Tony Stark doesn't adhere to those rules anymore. (The terrible truth, of course, is that he can't, really, being the broken, miserable thing that he is.)</p><p>A WIP for the avengers kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'A Beautiful Mess' by Jason Mraz. 
> 
> This is another fill for the D/S Bonding prompt (http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/3266.html?thread=2181314#t2181314), which has fantastic fills in progress already at the thread and another fantastic fill here at AO3 ('Lie There and Breathe' by peppermintchild.) I fiddled around a little with the timeline of the film to make Steve and Tony meet earlier, but that's all. I hope you enjoy my take on it!

The moments in his life where Tony has felt truly content are few and far between, as if happiness, intent on giving him a wide berth, occasionally slips up and he stumbles onto it by accident before it eludes him once more.

If he lets himself, he can recall being four, holding his first circuit board and basking in his father's then proud gaze, or those peaceful mornings where he had sat next to his mother on the sofa, curled into her side, feeling her breathe and never once imagining that one day she would stop. More recent are the memories of flying as Iron Man for the first time, soaring higher and higher to the symphony of AC/DC and his own unfettered laughter, and of Pepper's arms around him, relief swimming in her wet eyes when he told her he was no longer dying from palladium poisoning.

Those moments, as close to joy as they had brought him, feel like mere shadows in the wake of what blindsides him when he flippantly takes Captain America's hand. The greeting at the tip of his tongue fizzles away. His thoughts fade like dying whispers.

Sometime later, Pepper will ask him what Bonding felt like and he won't be able to explain. Tony isn't a poet unless it comes to his creations, the majority of his speeches are as convoluted as he is and so, the right words will escape him. The most he'll manage to tell her after several glasses of whiskey is how something inside of him has shifted, maybe vanishing away or maybe fixing itself, but whatever  _it_  is, Tony knows on some level that he is, like after Afghanistan all over again, an irrevocably changed man.

In that instance, he feels his chest tighten and his skin tingle. He is falling or maybe defying gravity or breaking apart or becoming whole for the first time ever. He is burning and it doesn't hurt, this fierce fire, this cool fire makes his blood sing with the serene hum of Zen gardens. He is an unstable atom spilling out energy erratically and he is the vibranium in his arc reactor that keeps him alive, solid, strong, unyielding. He is, he is, he is -

but then his eyes open - when did he close them? - and everything is churning inside of him and all Tony can think is, shit, no, fuckfuckfuck,  _no fucking way._ (It is, first and foremost, a clear indication that there's something wrong with him, if that's all he can think in the middle of what should be the greatest moment in his life.)

He inhales sharply like it's his first breath in days, pulling his hand away, ignoring how Rogers' fingers try to follow.

" _Tony_ ," Rogers whispers, sounding breathless. It's so terribly intimate, so full of wonder, that it belongs not in the stale air of a SHIELD briefing room but in the darkness of a bedroom, beneath silky sheets. Tony finds himself jerking backwards. He deals in machines and numbers and sex that means little more than physical gratification; the way Rogers is looking at him right now is alien, undeserving, and he doesn't understand it.

He hisses out like a cornered animal, " _no,_ no, I don't think so, Captain, you're not getting anything from me," and watches some of the joy in Rogers' face seep out. Vaguely, Tony notices Romanoff again, standing behind Rogers as if his barely stirring shadow, a tiny frown on her face instead of that coolly appraising expression she favours. Tony hurriedly puts on his sunglasses, clinging to what little protection it offers him, too shaken to care that he's hiding and exposing himself in one move. The meeting hasn't even begun yet, but it's time to leave, he decides, time to have a drink or three or until he loses consciousness. "I think," he says, slowly, warningly, "it's best if we all just pretend nothing happened here."

Rogers stares at him, wide-eyed, and Tony makes himself look away first just to prove that he  _can_  and that he can do it easily. It feels like a sharp sting, like ripping off the plaster from a wound. He makes sure to glance around, so that everyone knows he's not talking solely to the good Captain.

Bonding doesn't have to change anything. Tony Stark doesn't adhere to those rules anymore. (The terrible truth, of course, is that he  _can't,_  really, being the broken, miserable thing that he is.)

"Stark," Fury begins, always with that heavy gravity to his voice.

"This didn't happen," Tony repeats, barely stifling a shout. They all know that, the first chance he gets, he is going to hack into SHIELD's system and get rid of the camera footage.

Tony shakes his head and briskly heads for the door, grappling for a confidence he doesn't feel. He is unflappable, he tells himself because he's good at lying to himself, he is Tony Stark and he is unflappable even when an impossibility becomes reality. Coulson takes a step forward to intercept. Tony doesn't know what Coulson sees on his face (doesn't want to know even more) but whatever it is, it makes the agent rethink his intentions.

Tony says, "I have things to do. Lots of things. Absolute shitload. Don't know when I'll be free again, sorry, bye," and disappears without looking back, a man on the run.

+

Logically, Tony knows that Captain America – Captain America! Because, clearly, someone thought that if they were going to fuck over Tony Stark, they might as well do it big – isn't the problem. The problem, and this is perfectly obvious and grows only more obvious the more Tony drinks, is Tony himself. When he relays this to JARVIS, JARVIS replies with, "I believe that others may find your definition of 'logic' skewed, sir," which Tony takes to mean that he's better off ignoring JARVIS for the time being.

Normally, when faced with a quandary, Tony will disappear into his workshop and steadily work out an answer over numerous cups of coffee and looping playlists. There is no such thing as a problem without a solution – he's always known this but he only truly learnt what it means in a cave across the world – except there's nothing normal about this situation. He can't solve  _himself_  though God knows there have been attempts, his own included. (He also can't help the little kick he gets from thinking of himself as an impossible equation; he'd be the bane of academics everywhere.)

Once a problem is solved, it is eradicated. It exists no longer. Obie - still  _Obie_  even after everything - must have decided that it works just as well the other way: kill the problem and therefore solve it. Tony knows well the frustration of a seemingly unsolvable problem, so a tiny part of him commiserates with the disappointment Obie must have felt when Tony returned from Afghanistan alive and what  _that_  says about the issues Tony has, well, the less said, the better.

The urge to submit is discreetly placed within his makeup but like so many of the rules that society tries to enforce, Tony, for the most part, ignores it. The lifestyle he advocates where he does what or who he wants when he wants demands that he, at times, stifle that deep instinct. His orientation doesn't rule him, this is what he tells the world and the world, for the most part, listens, dutifully churning out photograph after photograph of Tony's wide selection of lovers be they Doms, subs, or switches. He makes it seem easy; discarding orientation is brushing lint off his favourite suit, but anyone who has ever pretended to be something they are not can understand how arduous it truly is. That part of him that hissed and writhed for attention every time Tony suppressed it found glorious freedom with Obie. But that was then. Tony has learned from his mistakes now.

"Tony, I know," Pepper's voice message had said when he returned to the penthouse a few hours ago. Coulson most likely called her the moment Tony fled from that briefing room. "And it'll be okay. Don't worry. I'll see you in a few days and then we'll talk."

He should feel awful. He  _wants_  to feel awful for not telling his girlfriend that he is Bonded to someone else, but all he can feel is the shakiness of his limbs persisting despite his best efforts to control it and he doesn't want Pepper to see him fighting against himself like this. From experience he knows it's a sad thing, a pitiful thing, to watch a machine break down. People are even worse. There's no one there to simply switch them off when they begin that shameful descent, sputtering and stalling.

That night, he passes out from drinking too much and it tips him into a hazy dream, where the clearest things are blue eyes and sun-kissed hair. When he wakes up, gasping and with a headache familiar enough to be an old friend, Tony decides to cut down on the alcohol and to stay awake until he's so thoroughly exhausted that he won't have the energy to even dream. (He nurses the hope that Rogers hasn't dreamt of him too, the last thing he wants is to be another man's nightmare.)

For most of his life, Tony has placed Bonding in the realm of myths, alongside Daedalus and Icarus, Ragnarök, virtuous men, and a Howard Stark who could pay attention to his son once in a while. He may have let himself dream once, a long time ago, a time before Obie, but dreams are just as intangible and unreachable as myths so it was all just foolishness really.

Now though, he's reading everything he can find on the subject: essays, personal accounts, studies, and theories. He learns how rare it is (recordings in America began in the late eighteenth century, only two thousand Bondings have been confirmed since then in a country populated by millions), how long it takes for the Bond to stabilise (roughly a month), and finds a list of common reactions (it's the 'hyperawareness of one another's presence' that makes Tony rub at his chest, where the acute sensitivity to Rogers' absence has left a vacuum). He searches desperately but nothing tells him how to dissolve a Bond.

Pepper is nothing if not a woman of her word, so inevitably, four days later, they are both sitting on the couch, Tony fiddling with an empty glass. He doesn't want to drink in case he can't stop and he wants to remember this conversation, every word, every expression, every movement. Even so, he's already launched into a spiel, commenting on Pepper's hair, Dummy's latest accident, his next idea for an invention, the weather in Tahiti (how he knows that, Tony's not quite sure), and he is so hopelessly lost in his own words that Pepper has to put a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

"'m soey," he says into her palm, repeating it more clearly when she takes her hand away.

Pepper only smiles sadly. "So am I. But not quite as much as you, I think."

Her admission pricks him. "What is that supposed to mean? We're dating. We're together. You're meant to be angry. Why aren't you angry?"

Pepper takes the glass from his hand, setting it on the table. She curls her long fingers delicately around both of his hands. They feel cool against his sweaty palm and he holds on tight. When she speaks, it's with a yearning that he has never really heard before with her. "For all we like to think we've found our soul mate, Bonding hardly ever happens these days. How I could ever be angry that you get to have something so wonderful?"

"But I don't want this. I want you, Pep, I love  _you_ ," Tony insists, because it's the truth. As two subs, theirs is not the typical relationship and they'll never fit together neatly in all the ways a Dom and sub do, but there is love between them. It isn't the torrid passion or heady excitement of a Yeats poem but it is stability, constancy, a refuge where Tony can breathe a little lighter.

"And I love you, Tony, I always will. I'm flattered that you would choose me over the man you're Bonded to, but we both know that this could never be anything...more than what it is now." He doesn't want to hear it, but she's going to say it anyway. They've talked about this only once before, back when their friendship first became something more, and they've both known that one day, they would have to talk about it again. Selfishly, Tony has been hoping that that day would never come around. "We're safe options for each other. We can't hurt each other as much as a Dom could. But now there's something better for you."

"There is no one better than you. You're the best, you always have been. Pepper, why can't you see that?"

"You can't ignore this," she points out, ever the voice of reason.

"I can and I will."

"That's like cutting off your nose to spite your face, Tony. I thought you were meant to be clever. And it's not just you that we have to think about. What about Captain Rogers?" There are very few secrets he can keep from her (very few he'd want to). Despite Fury's stressing, the retrieval of Captain America isn't one of them.

"What about Rogers?" Tony sneers. He'd prefer mountains and rivers to separate him from Rogers but mountains and rivers aren't viable right now, so he'll settle for what meagre distance surnames allow him. It's petty and childish but that has never stopped him before.

"Agent Coulson said he's unhappy and confused. He doesn't understand why you left so suddenly. Tony, you have to go back. He wants to talk to you."

"I can't go back. I can't talk to him. I can't do this, Pepper, I  _can't_ ," and he's holding her hands too tight now, possibly hurting her, but he can't make himself let go. He'll be lost if he lets go. Pepper is safe, Pepper is honest. She is the shadow that is too loyal to abandon anyone and she is one of the few reasons why his smiles, the honest ones he rarely uses, have warmth in them (the others are Rhodey and Happy). He loves her and she loves him and why isn't that enough?

Pepper frowns, concerned. She gets one hand free and touches his forehead, his cheeks, feeling out an illness. She touches and then her eyes harden, as if the fear on his face is Braille and she has read the truth with her fingertips. "Tony, this isn't just about the Bonding, is it? There's something else."

"It is," Tony murmurs hoarsely.

"Tony. Is this - is this about Stane?"

Only Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy know that Obie was more than a mentor and a family friend, but the whole story is a mystery even to them. That is a secret he will never share, a darkness that only he will suffer from. Pepper is untainted, undamaged, unlike Tony whose scars still run red even if only he can see how it gushes. He wants to keep it that way, so he gives her a half-hearted smile and says nothing. Let her make of that what she will.

"He was never right for you," Pepper says vehemently, so beautifully fierce like fire flaring bright that it's no wonder Tony adores her.

"It doesn't matter what he was or wasn't. Point is, I'm not taking any risks."

"I don't know him, but I'd like to think the man who's Captain America would never betray you like Stane did and try to kill you."

"That's the thing. You don't know him. There is no one left alive who knows him. I'm not taking any chances."

"Tony—"

"No, Pepper," Tony says brokenly, slumping forward to rest his forehead against her shoulder. She smells like vanilla, like comfort, as always. It eases his frantic grip on her hands, makes it easier for him to say the words his pride – battered as it is – would never let him say in front of anyone else. "Pepper, don't leave me."

She wraps her arms around him, presses a kiss into his hair, and lets that be her answer for now. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Loki appears, chaos and wrath leaking out of the frayed edges of his psyche, Tony is pulled back into the game. His curiosity is roused by the Tesseract, his suspicions by Fury.

In Stuttgart, he finds Captain America, standing tall, strong, and breathtaking in his uniform. Aboard the helicarrier, Rogers comes out, a little more human, a little more tense around the eye and sombre around the mouth.

It's not surprising that the majority of their time together is spent arguing. The ones who do arrogance best are the ones who have to wear it like a second skin and Tony Stark has spent his whole life wrapping it around himself. He falls back onto carefree bravado, snappy retorts, and is quick to quarrel with Rogers if only to get rid of the brittle silence that will otherwise plague them. He turns his blinding grins towards Bruce Banner and Bruce's quiet brilliance, leaving Rogers in darkness.

(Bruce notices Steve standing alone, always alone, broad shoulders slumped. He sees a man who thought he had lost everything only to discover he's still losing out. Bruce notices Tony touching his chest, pensive. He sees a man who can face death fearlessly but is too scared to allow himself happiness. Bruce knows neither of them well but he knows pain and these two walk in its shadow.)

In front of Rogers, standing defiant against eyes that seem to see too much, Tony feels like the raw nerve that Bruce likens the Hulk to. The vulnerability makes his stomach twist into painful knots, makes him angry and defensive despite the Bond railing against his unruliness. He isn't sure if it's the Bond to blame or if Rogers would have had the uncanny ability to find and target all of his weaknesses anyway, but, in a few words, the Captain manages to deal more blows to Tony than anyone else – except for Obie, that is, but he's not nearly drunk enough to tackle that line of thought – could.

They throw words at each other, bullets encased in syllables and frustration. _Big man in a suit of armour. Take that away, what are you? You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play. You're a laboratory experiment. Everything special about you came out of a bottle._

And then Coulson, a man who believes in heroes, in the Avengers Initiative, and, most astonishingly of all, in _Tony,_ dies. There's a mantra in Tony's head that goes _YinsenCoulsonYinsenCoulson_ , a drumbeat pulsing in time with his heart, as he and Rogers unravel Loki's plans.

+

He never imagined that he would die in outer space, surrounded by black pinpricked with stars, tendrils of his life seeping out of his skin and out of the suit to disappear amongst nebulae. He feels ever so cold, as if submerged in arctic waters. His eyes close while he falls back down into his world. There is someone he is tethered to there, someone he must go back to.

+

Blue eyes and sun-kissed hair are the first things he sees when he startles into consciousness. Relief courses through his veins, too much to just be his own.

+

They celebrate saving New York (and by extension, the world) by eating shawarma.

At the restaurant, Tony is careful not to sit next to Rogers, who ends up sitting on the opposite end of the table from him. Rogers has his elbow resting on the table, his face turned into his hand as if to keep his head propped up in case he can't stay awake. His eyes are closed, his food half finished. For a moment, it seems like they all got it wrong. Rogers looks like he spent the last seventy years awake rather than asleep and every moment of it has left a mark on his face.

Between large bites, Thor remarks on how tired the Captain looks. Rogers mumbles something without looking up, a joke about being an old man and needing more time to get back into fighting so large an enemy. If anyone suspects that it's more than just exhaustion that has him looking so haggard, they don't voice it out loud. (They know, now, what two Bonded look like when one of them nearly died, they've seen how the near-tragedy ages the face.)

The adrenalin rush from all the fighting has dwindled into a distant memory and in its place, Tony is left to deal with a tangled mess of fatigue, elation, sorrow. Victory is sweet, he thinks with a snort, only that's not quite true, is it, it can't be when victory and loss are just two sides of the same coin and the faces around the table are all too aware of that.

Romanoff had pulled Barton away at one point and the two were blank-faced as they murmured quietly, Tony glancing over in time to catch Romanoff's lips shape out Coulson's name and Barton's grim nod. Thor has also dimmed, a subdued quality lingering over his expression, the foreign presence looking wrong on a face with so many laugh lines. Loki may be imprisoned right now – with no chance of escape this time round – but he still haunts his brother's thoughts. Bruce's weak smiles flicker like faulty lights under the weight of all the lives they couldn't save.

"Hey, you guys should stay at the Tower for tonight," Tony says without thinking. It's the way they all look like they'll go to sleep on their chairs, he assures himself, it's bringing out his magnanimity and his own exhaustion isn't helping either.

"You think that's a good idea? It needs a little work after today, don't you think?" Barton imitates an explosion with his hands, complete with sound effects.

"Actually, it's just the name that got," Tony mimics Barton's gesture. "And the penthouse suite, really. Loki and his alien buddies were kind enough to leave it alone otherwise." He snaps his fingers and points at Bruce. "You, sir, don't get a choice. We science brothers must stick together. It's a law, I'm sure of it, and I take my duty as a law-abiding citizen very seriously."

A quiet chuckle comes from the side, an unconscious reaction tumbling out of Rogers' throat. From behind the arc reactor, Tony's heart skitters. "You just want to poke him some more and test his self-control," Rogers says without the caution he had aboard the helicarrier, the cutting recrimination.

Bruce grins a little, sheepish like he's the one who's planning on the poking. "Steve's right. I feel so unloved, Tony, you're more interested in the Other Guy than in me."

"I bought you dinner, Brucie. Not many people can boast that Tony Stark bought them dinner." A half-truth, but the banter is good, it's distracting. "Come on, I have so much room in that place I could fit the population of Russia." Romanov raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh, that's not a selling factor for you? Okay, fine, noted. Amend that to population of, uh, some other large country. So. Yay or nay?"

Looks are exchanged and shoulders are shrugged and the answer is that of a collective _yay_. Tony settles back into his chair, grabbing his phone. A few seconds later, Happy is yelling at him, sounding, well, happy. Tony grins now that _he's_ happy. Happy doesn't work for Tony any more, but he jumps at the chance to see Tony safe and alive for himself (meeting the rest of his ex-boss's superhero team is simply a big bonus apparently), announcing that he'll come by as quick as he can with the car.

"Happy says hi, by the way," Tony says to Romanoff after hanging up, watching the edge of her mouth quirk upwards. Everyone likes Happy, it's practically a fact of life, and Happy never forgets a face even if that face had previously gone by a different name.

It's dark outside when they finally leave the restaurant, the owner looking a little sad to see them go though his smile never really falls. Tony feels the rubble beneath his shoes, looks at how many of the buildings have crumpled like worn-down soldiers, while other ones doggedly hold on to their skeleton. Tonight, New York will savour the feeling that they are still alive and mourn for those who aren't. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that, they will do the same, only they will begin to mend themselves and their city. It's something to be both envious and respectful of, Tony thinks, how people can pick themselves up off the ground, dust themselves off and continue plodding along, patching themselves up as best they can. He's been doing the same for a number of years, but it still feels like he's unravelling at the seams instead.

"Hey, Stark," Romanoff says quietly, coming to stand next to him.

Tony wants to quip that battling an alien army together allows her to call by his first name, only the remembered sting of a needle jabbing into his neck makes him hesitate. Admittedly, she had done it to help him, but he would have preferred a warning at the very least.

Tony raises an eyebrow at her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Clint and I have got our own ride. SHIELD," is the only explanation she offers along with a shrug. "Thor is going with us."

"Really, now? And why's that?" he asks dryly. A few feet away from them, Barton is pointing to something in the distance, directing Rogers' attention away.

"He says he wants to talk to Clint. Most likely, it's something to do with Loki."

"Oh, so it's not just you manoeuvring things around so that Rogers and I are stuck together?"

Romanoff isn't the most expressive woman he's ever met and maybe it's the pale moonlight but her face is softer, framed by harsh red hair. "I would say it's not any of my business—"

"So would I, because it really isn't."

"We're going to be working together again. I don't know when, but we will be. I would appreciate it if _all_ of my teammates were on good terms with each other."

Tony stares at her unabashedly. She really is quite beautiful, in the way that all deadly creatures are. Her wide eyes and full lips hold a silent flirtation to them, a quiet intensity that reveals her as a Domme, and she moves with the unconscious grace of sleek panthers. A stage could have been her home once, had life been kinder to her, or a world of dance or gymnastics, but now even the elegant arch of her spine goes towards a darker purpose.

"I know," he mutters eventually.

She holds his gaze for a long moment, standing with all the stillness of the arctic tundra in her motherland, and says, "you almost died today and all he could do was watch." And then she walks off to join Barton and Thor. Tony gets the feeling that that's all she wanted to say, really.

When Happy finally arrives, he smothers Tony in a frantic hug, almost lifting him up. Tony yelps, demands to be put down, those demands quickly trailing off into embarrassed, affectionate laughter. Happy's face is crinkled with almost a childlike joy as he shakes hands with Bruce and, a little more excitedly, Rogers. 

Before Tony can say anything, Bruce clambers into the passenger seat, foggy-headed and with drooping eyes. The uneasy moment that follows, Tony and Rogers standing and staring at the car door like it's the entrance to another battle, is cut short by Happy tentatively asking if anything is wrong. Tony tries not to let his discomfort show, sprawling himself in his seat in his usual manner, and Rogers doesn't hold his limbs close together, keeps his gaze forwards, but they both pretend for the whole of the ride that the quietness isn't actually tension.

Tony tries to be a good host since he extended the invitation, showing them to the residential floors, and where what can be found and oh yeah, that's JARVIS, he's an AI I created when I was feeling particularly genius-y. From Thor and Rogers, Tony is hoping for bewildered looks at the disembodied voice greeting them but is disappointed when Thor looks more delighted and the beginnings of a curious smile twists Rogers' mouth. 

"Neat place," Barton says with an impressed whistle, eyes skating across the ceiling. Tony thinks he should bristle over how Barton isn't drooling over all the technology. "Wish I could get myself something like this with SHIELD pay."

Tony laughs and decides he and Barton are going to get along just fine.

Once everyone is settled, Tony wanders off. He doesn't go to his workshop or to his bedroom despite how much he wants to. Romanoff's words and his own restlessness prod him towards the room Loki had thrown him out of only hours ago, where Rogers, compelled by the Bond, will come to find him. It's only a matter of time. Tony felt it when he opened his eyes at the Hulk's roar and he felt it lingering in the small space between them in the car, that yearning to touch, to be touched, to reassure each other that they are still alive.

The breeze coming through the broken window eases the sting of the bruises on his face a little. He pours himself a drink and then goes up to window, carefully avoiding the fragments of glass still glittering on the floor. He'll clean it up, or have it cleaned up, in the morning. JARVIS makes a note of it, his dulcet tones modulating halfway through to allow the sound of soft footsteps creep over them.

Tony remains where he is. Rogers approaches slowly like he's half expecting him to run away, which he can't exactly be faulted for. The closest exit is the window, however, and Tony isn't in the mood to fall out of it twice in one day. Rogers comes to stand next to him, too close for his liking. Every breath Tony takes in is scented with the smell of battle, of leather and sweat and smoke coalesced together. Straining against it all is something clean and very faintly soapy.

Rogers bends his head, eyes dropping to Tony's hand briefly and then dancing up and away back to the New York skyline, letting the temptation remain a temptation. Tony won't allow it, _cannot_ allow the smallest touch, but he'll allow Rogers to stand close and draw whatever comfort he can from that. They are still strangers and yet, he feels with a surety he doesn't quite understand that Rogers would have mourned him if he had died. It unnerves Tony that the Bond has already entwined them together so deeply.

"I want to apologise for what I said back on the helicarrier," Rogers says.

The thing is, most people assume that Tony Stark doesn't know how to apologise. It's not like he's done anything to dissuade this, really, except for how Iron Man is a huge, red and gold apology for all the weapons he made, all the (newer, faster, better!) ways he's ruined lives, reduced innocent people into blood-spatters on the ground and ghosts that will go forgotten. And it's not like anyone ever saw those moments when he was down on his knees, disappointment and the feeling of failure thick in his chest, tremulously mumbling _sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, I'll do better next time_ while Obie said, _I'm so disappointed in you, Tony. I told Goldstein you were a good little sub but you left him unsatisfied._

Tony knows perfectly well how to apologise; he just doesn't know how to receive them. In his experience, deflection is as good a solution as any. "Not even going to get out of uniform, Captain?" Not the best choice of words, if he thinks about it, and he had said them in too low a voice, eyes flashing at the uniform clinging to broad lines. Rogers doesn't reply anyway. "Well, then. How about a drink?" Tony shuffles over to the bar.

"I don't want any, thanks."

Tony pauses. He weakens and hates himself for it when he looks over his shoulder at Rogers' profile. Statuesque, modelesque, picturesque, he rattles off without thinking. (When he was seven, he spent a day burning words ending in –esque into his brain because they felt so pleasant on his tongue and, more importantly, his mother smiled so brightly when he said them to her.)

Objectively, he understands that Rogers is an attractive man – how can he not be when he is at the peak of human physical perfection? A diamond in the rough that became a living legend, it makes for an exquisite story. Tony almost feels sorry that he can't appreciate it. Seventy years of sleep may have done nothing to take away Rogers' youth or beauty, but it has taken everything he ever loved. A harsh exchange, made harsher by how he's been left burdened with Tony.

Rogers stirs out of his reverie and looks at him. Tony turns back to refilling his glass. "Oh yeah, you can't get drunk, can you? Shame. You're missing out. Every man's gotta spend at least a few days every month in his bathroom, building a beautiful relationship with his toilet."

Rogers makes a noise, disapproving, distressed. "About before. I was frustrated and I just wanted you to stop. To look at me and talk without arguing—"

"It's fine, really, you don't need to explain—"

"—and to pull back some of that impulsiveness. But you wouldn't and I ended up being harsh and judgemental. I'm sorry for that."

"Did I tell you that apologies make my skin itch? It's like an allergy. Some people don't like oysters, others can't eat nuts, I can't take apologies. Very sad, I know. Does that surprise you? I think it surprises you. Why wouldn't it? You probably think that I'm one of those self-absorbed assholes who throw a bitch fit at the smallest things and make people apologise for breathing too loudly around me. Don't get me wrong though, I _am_ a self-absorbed asshole, you've already figured that one for yourself, and Pepper says my bitch fits can be quite legendary."

"I'm trying to apologise."

"And here I am telling you how you don't need to. How terrible of me."

"I - could you at least turn around and face me, please?"

Tony bites his lip and does, however reluctant.

"I'm sorry," Rogers says, stepping closer. "You proved me wrong."

Tony steps back, the bar hitting his back. "Hey, just, uh, stand there. I accept your apology, alright? Don't worry about it." He waves a hand with an assumed air of flippancy. "I've had worse things said to me, anyway."

"I'm sorry to hear that too." And Rogers truly is, Tony believes it. "Did they...did they hurt as much as what I said?"

Tony can't help it; he laughs and is mortified at how bitter the sound is. "Just because we're, you know," he refuses to say the word, "you think I'll start crying if you're _mean_ to me?"

Rogers frowns. He moves nearer, opens his mouth to say something, but then thinks better of it. His face is pale and drawn tight. A hand moves to his stomach gingerly.

"Your wound," Tony says.

"I'll be fine. The serum makes sure I heal quickly. It just hurts a little right now, that's all."

"You shouldn't be here. You should be resting."

"Don't tell me what I should be doing. You _know_ why I'm here. I almost lost you today and I couldn't – and now, you won't even let me touch—" Rogers extends the same hand that's sitting on his stomach, reaching out for nothing but empty space forlornly. He sighs, a great sigh that makes his chest tremble. "Look, I don't want to argue. Not again. Just tell me why you're so against this. I thought Bonding was something everyone wanted."

You don't want damaged goods, Tony could say. You'll end up hating me, Tony could say. You'll break me and I don't think I'll be able to fix myself when that happens, Tony could say. They'll all be true. In the end, what he decides on is, "it's for the best."

"And only you get to decide what's for best? What about what I think?"

"You have an apartment in Brooklyn, don't you." It's not really a question, so Tony doesn't wait for an answer. "So you have somewhere to go after tonight and we don't need to run into each other."

"You want me to leave," Rogers states flatly. "To give up."

Tony would have stepped back some more if he could, try and get away from the disappointment he hears. "Don't push me, Rogers. I killed—" my last dom, is what Tony almost lets slip, "the last guy who did that."

Rogers flinches visibly. Tony hadn't expected to feel any sort of satisfaction at the reaction and he doesn't, but he should've expected the dreadful taste the threat – that's what it is, a small, frightened part of him shrieks, aimed at his own Bonded of all people – leaves in his mouth.

With a shaky hand, Tony puts his untouched drink down. This was a bad idea, letting Rogers find him. He needs to get away. He needs to repair his suit. He needs to regain control. Rigidly, he (doesn't run, not quite) walks past Rogers, past the window, past the city they saved, a city that's broken like them but has more chance of fixing itself. He's already in the hallway when Rogers' voice comes through.

"I can feel it, you know. How scared you are. It's like this noise at the back of my head, doesn't go away, doesn't get quieter."

Tony tries not to think about the emptiness inside of him, a gaping chasm that's yawning open more and more each day, a chasm that actually belongs to Rogers who walks around with a bleeding hole in his chest that no one else has noticed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting in the passenger seat with a small smile on his face, Bruce looks comfortable even if he doesn't entirely agree with the song Tony's put on. Tony grins widely, sings along to _Highway to Hell_ with exaggerated expressions, and laughs at Bruce rolling his eyes.

"Are you serenading me, Tony? Is this your method of wooing?"

"Depends. Do you feel wooed?"

It's still early in the morning and they're on their way back to the Tower. Thor has taken his brother and the Tesseract back to Asgard and the rest of the Avengers have gone their separate ways. Tony didn't ask where Barton and Romanoff were headed (they didn't look like they would tell him anyway), and he had nothing to ask Rogers so they just shook hands. He had even mustered up a smile that wasn't dark or false or tinged with anything at all, just as empty as the smiles he gave the press, and maybe that was worse.

"You know, I don't think I'll put my name back onto the Tower. What? Why are you looking at me like that for?"

"Who are you and what have you done with Tony Stark?" Bruce asks in the gravest voice in his arsenal. "I thought you had some mission to stamp your name across everything known to man."

"Oh, Brucie, you understand me so well already. If you insist, I'll keep it as Stark Tower even if Avengers Tower would be more appropriate."

"Avengers Tower, huh?"

"I just thought, if we're going to do this thing, this Avengers gig, then we need a HQ, right? The Tower's perfect."

"Well, you know you've already got me on board. If you need me, I'll try my best to be there."

At Bruce's easy acceptance, Tony lets his grin soften, become smaller, more real. Friendship is something to be handled like spun glass, too precious and fragile for someone like Tony whose hands are too restless and heart too closed, who fiddles too much, building and destroying and rebuilding ad infinitum. But, over the years, over delicate metalwork, over too many arguments about paperwork with Pepper, late night drives with Happy, and doughnuts with Rhodey, he's learnt how to steady those restless hands and crack open that closed heart somewhat. There is space enough now for another friend, he decides.

Bruce is a quiet, unassuming man, almost to the point of being overlooked, only that's the way he likes it, he tells Tony, because then he becomes the air, the silence, the walls. It gives him a degree of protection; it also gives him those hidden moments where others, forgetting he is even there, drop their masks, flesh out into real beings. Bruce gives him a strange, sideways glance that suggests he has already seen glimpses of what Tony conceals behind his pantomime.

"You didn't sleep much last night, did you?"

"Guilty as charged." Tony shrugs. He had been left too jittery after the conversation with Rogers and descended into the workshop to labour maniacally over the suit. He kept sleep away that way, driven by the fear that if he gave into slumber, then his dreams would be of the pitch black and ice cold of space swallowing him up like a ravenous monster. It was only after JARVIS informed him of dawn's approach that he dragged himself into his bedroom to change into something more presentable. "I didn't eat anything either. We should grab some breakfast."

"Something without blueberries, I think. Thanks to you, I've eaten too many over the past few days."

"Chocolate muffins, then, and coffee. Or, wait, croissants and coffee. No, no, doughnuts and coffee. I like that last one best."

"Your veins just have sugar running through them, don't they?"

"Remind me not to introduce you to Pepper. You two will get along ridiculously well and I'm just going to be bullied left, right, and centre." At Bruce's frown, he elaborates. "She's my girlfriend, my CEO, my raison d'etre. She also thinks I'm insane and doesn't understand how I'm a functioning human being. I've tried explaining to her that I'm just a very realistic android but she's not having it."

Bruce laughs. It's a rusty sound, so soft that it's nearly drowned out by the guitar riff Tony's humming along to. Absentmindedly, Tony wonders when was the last time Bruce had a reason to laugh.

The energy that had simmered under his skin throughout the night is all but gone now, the last of it seeming to have left along with Rogers. Tony's eyes burn a little and they're red behind his shades from the lack of sleep, but he got used to that years ago and it almost helps him feel better, feel normal. "What's your schedule like for the next few months?" he asks Bruce, turning his eyes away from the sun brightening Bruce's yellow shirt.

"I don't know. I might stay for a bit if there's anything interesting enough to keep me here, I might go back to travelling."

"Anything _interesting_ enough? I think I'm insulted. The R &D floors at the Tower are going to make you cry. I'll give you the tour myself instead of sticking JARVIS on it."

"That's very nice of you. I mean the giving me a tour part, not the making me cry part." Bruce looks out at the buildings rushing past them, the people who recognise them and sometimes shout out in acknowledgement. Casually, he says, "you know that he's not going to be gone very long, don't you?"

Tony is just glad his hands don't jerk and the car doesn't go sliding in any other direction than straight ahead. "Yeah? What makes you so sure? Your Dom instincts tingling?"

"Something like that." Bruce is unmistakably wistful when he continues, "I know that if I had a choice, I wouldn't leave my sub, my Bonded, alone, when they're hurting."

"Hurting, huh?"

"Do you deny it?"

"As a matter of fact, I plead the fifth." Which is the same as admitting it, but Tony's a big fan of going about things the long way around if he can help it.

Betty Ross is a tall, striking woman with sharp cheekbones and a sharper intellect. Tony has only ever seen photographs of her but even photographs were enough to see that she is Bruce's Pepper, only with darker hair and far more unreachable. Bruce keeps away for her safety, loves her from afar, aching and basking in that love like it's an ember that hurts and warms him in equal measure.

The sharp rise of guilt makes Tony clutch at the steering wheel harder. He drives faster until the air is a furious whip rushing against their skin, until it's surrounding them wholly like a barrier of some sort and whatever he says will dissolve into the wind and the noise of cars beyond it. "Do you think I'm ungrateful?"

"No, not ungrateful. Not unworthy either." Bruce pauses there, waits until Tony nods, accepting. "Just reluctant."

"I like having a way out." He remembers Rogers on the helicarrier, saying _always a way out_ mockingly and with a small smirk. "Something like that, there's no way out. It's – too much."

Bruce nods. "Okay. I can understand that."

"Can you?"

"Sure. I don't know if I agree that this is the way out that you need, but I can understand that you obviously feel like you need one."

Tony doesn't say anything. He can't find the words to describe how suffocated the idea of the Bond makes him feel and he doesn't want to, anyway. There should be a rule, he thinks dourly, one that calls for bad things only being talked about during bad weather.

"You know what I think? I think he's got a plan."

"God forbid that the Star Spangled Man doesn't have a plan."

"He's a military man, a tactician. I'd expect no less from him."

Tony scoffs. His eyes are itching now and why did he even think he could bear this feeling? He just wants to rub at them. "I'm not some military operation, Bruce. Careful, you'll hurt my feelings if you continue talking this way."

Bruce shrugs in that understated way he has, where he's appearing to defer but is actually confident enough in his opinion to patiently wait it out until everyone else realises he's right. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want that."

+

Pepper arrives in the evening, straight from the airport. Tony's lying on the floor of the workshop – how he quite got there, he has no recollection but it's not exactly an unusual occurrence so he's fine with staying where he is – when JARVIS informs him of her arrival and then he jumps up to meet her at the door, where they stand for a long while, quietly holding each other. Underneath her eyes, the dark smudges born from tiredness and dealing with him are hidden with make-up but Tony knows they're still there, has kissed that place softly and made her giggle and bat him away. He wishes he could tell her that he won't almost die again, only it'll just be yet another promise he can't keep so he doesn't say anything and she doesn't ask him to.

Instead, she whispers, "thank God," into the side of his face and if there is a quiet sniffle, then they don't mention it. Tony wants to kiss the shaky smile on her face until it's steady again. Pepper puts one hand on his chest next to the arc reactor, cups the side of his face with the other, and gently stops him.

"Tony," she murmurs, her thumb stroking just below the bruise around his eye.

"Pepper," he says, willing for once to just wait and give her whatever she's looking for right now.

She exhales, loud, a sigh tinted with sweet-tasting cake, and then gives a firm nod, dropping her hands, stepping back. She's made a decision. Tony thinks he already knows what it is, can feel it in his gut.

He watches her take a seat on the nearest stool, her hands falling neatly on her lap. It's a step, a part of the routine she undertakes when recomposing herself. Next, she will square her shoulders and look him in the eye.

"So, I met Dr. Banner on the way in. He says you've invited him to stay here for as long as he wants."

Tony narrows his eyes. He recognises that tone of voice; it's her serene I-am-making-a-point-here-I-hope-you-realise-this-before-I-have-to-force-it-on-you voice. She uses it when she needs to convince him that going to Ibiza while the company is in trouble is a bad idea or when she's hinting that she'll be taking the evening off, so it would be very much appreciated if Tony doesn't get himself involved in any public scandal that'll require immediate attention. "Yep. We're going to be awesome together and blow things up and possibly take over the world in our pursuit of science. Possibly. We still need to look at our schedules."

"That's good. I'm glad. It'll be nice having someone else around to keep you sane."

"There are several aspects of that last sentence that are profoundly incorrect. For instance, to keep me sane, I would have to _be_ sane in the first place."

"Tony."

"Pepper. Are we doing this again? I thought we had already done this, like, thirty seconds ago." He shoves away the scraps of metal cluttering a workbench onto the floor and perches himself in the free space, looking at her expectantly.

Pepper sighs. It sounds more sad than frustrated. "Tony, where is he?"

Tony rolls his eyes. He needs a drink. Drinks. And he needs them yesterday. "How should I know? His apartment? I'm not tracking him, you know."

" _Why_ is he at his apartment? I'm sure there is plenty of space here for Captain Rogers."

"I'm sure there is," Tony echoes. "I would just prefer it if he wasn't here."

"Really. Would you."

"Yes. Yes, I really would. God, Pep, can't you give me a break? I almost died, remember? This was meant to be a tearful reunion with lots of hugs and kisses and warm fuzzies all around. We're meant to be happy right now, drinking champagne and arguing about where we should order takeaway from."

Pepper draws in a sharp breath, her eyes blinking rapidly out of surprise and hurt, the rest of her face tightening.

"Shit," Tony says immediately, jumping off the workbench, reaching for her. "I didn't mean that, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Just being an asshole again, you know me, I don't think before I speak."

"You're right." Pepper keeps her hands firmly where they are. "You are being an asshole again and you did almost die again."

"But we can work this out, just like all the other times."

"No," she says, sharp, and he recoils. "You think you need me, but you don't, not anymore and not in this way. He's your _Bonded_ and I am not going to stand in the way of this. That's not fair to you, to me, or to him." When her thin shoulders slump, he hears it in the defeat in her voice. "Don't ask me to do this, Tony. Not this."

He's asked for so many things over the years: odd things, rare things, stupid things, good things, precious things, none so precious as her loyalty and her love. He's asked her for more than he had any right to but Pepper, beautiful, kind Pepper, let him have most of it without refusing and now that she is, he can't bring himself to ask for more.

Tony feels anger, but only a brief flash of it. It extinguishes itself before he can give voice to it. The words (you can't do this, please, how could you, you don't understand, I love you) stutter in his throat anyway. It's sadness that makes him stand there and stare at her, not an overwhelming sadness but one that quietly ebbs and flows over him. On some level, he thinks he must have been expecting this to happen.

He somehow brings himself to say, "okay. Okay, I won't."

"Thank you," she whispers, and she sounds so relieved that Tony isn't sure whether he should feel upset by it or not.

"You're not leaving though, are you? I mean, you're leaving me but you're not leaving-leaving, right? Because the company needs you and I don't think it can handle you leaving." I need you and I don't think I can handle you leaving, is what he really means. He can feel it rear its head again, that fear that sleeps always in the back of his mind, like a predator lying in wait, never entirely forgotten. _I can feel it, you know,_ he hears Rogers say again. _How scared you are...doesn't go away, doesn't get quieter._

Pepper hears it loud and clear.  "I have no intention of quitting. I'm still your CEO, Tony, I'm still your friend."

The words are like a salve, bringing sweet relief. "Good," he breathes out. "That's good."

It'll take some time to rearrange themselves back into Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts and leave behind completely all the ways they have been more than friends to each other. Things will seem a little gloomier without her red hair spilling like tamed flame across his pillow, her laughter echoing in his home. Tony already knows he'll want to appear randomly at her apartment with flowers and something other than strawberries or call her at inconvenient times to beg her to come back. He will want to, but he won't. Delightful creatures like Pepper are not meant to be trapped and that is all he will be doing.

"Oh, God, it's over," he mumbles, stepping back, hiding his face in his hands. He's not crying but something in him must be weeping, otherwise he wouldn't want to crumple like flimsy paper.

Pepper stands up and takes his hands away. "For us, yes. For you and Captain Rogers, it's a different story."

He has nothing to say to that that won't disappoint her. Instead, he says, "want to see what I've been working on today?"

"Sure, Tony," Pepper replies softly, fondly, still fondly, like nothing will please her more.

It helps him stay casual. "I figured I should get to designing individual floors for the rest of this raggedy bunch here at the Tower."

He leads her back up to the penthouse, fixes himself a drink, and brings out the floor plans. It's no surprise at all that Pepper picks out Captain America's first.

+

Rhodey calls him. He's halfway around the world and he still calls Tony and he says nothing when all that comes from Tony are hitched breaths that say more than any words could.

"Thanks," Tony rasps afterwards, rubbing at his soggy lashes and glassy eyes.

"Anytime," Rhodey says, firm as ever. "You're okay, Tony. You're fine. You just wait for me, okay?"

Tony calms under the reassurance and says, "I will," relief bleeding through his voice. 


	4. Chapter 4

Coulson's funeral is on a bright, sunny day. In the backseat of the car, Pepper sitting silent beside him as Happy drives them to the cemetery, Tony is debating whether or not that's a cruel thing. Pathetic fallacy is a fickle thing, he eventually decides, a thing not to be depended on, a thing that can only be relied upon in poems.

The first and only funeral he's been to is that of his parents'. He'd like to say that he barely remembers the day, but he remembers it with vivid clarity. Everything had been sharpened by his grief, a well-hidden grief but grief nonetheless. Howard and Maria Stark may not have won any awards for being great parents, but Tony loved (and still loves) them with a child's inherent devotion. He had orbited around them for they had been his sun, even if Howard was always out of reach and Maria's warmth wasn't enough.

Tony steps out of the car first, holding a hand out for Pepper. Her fingers are cold where they tangle with his and they walk hand in hand through the crowd of black and white to where the rest of the Avengers stand alongside Fury and Hill. It's easy to distinguish a SHIELD agent from a relative. The former have a strict bearing, an air of professionalism sewn into their faces and clothes, as if even mourning must be done from behind an empty mask.

Tony had always made a point of pretending to ignore conversations between Coulson and Pepper, but those same conversations revolve around in his head now, telling him that even though he has never met them before, he already knows the four people standing at the front. Coulson's sister is a small woman, but Coulson once said that it didn't often feel like that. The truth of his words comes through in how Heather holds herself tall and dignified beside her husband and son, crying silently and without hiding her tears. The pale blonde woman on Heather's right has dull eyes. The hands that Coulson loved hang limply by her sides and the long, raspy breaths that leave her chest like the last gasps of air before death must be what heartbreak sounds like. She is Rebecca Dawson, the cellist from Portland.

Tony stands next to Pepper and Bruce rigidly, iron in his spine. He finds the lofty trees at the far end of the cemetery and stares at them for the whole of the service, the pastor's voice dissolving into a low hum at the edges of his vision. He instinctively squeezes Pepper's hand when she sniffs and feels her squeeze back.

Afterwards, Heather comes by, a hand delicately raised to shield her faintly red eyes from the sun. Tony is alone; Pepper has gone to talk to Rebecca and the lingering discomfort of being amongst too many people has made Bruce retreat to somewhere quieter. He thinks he ought to smile at her but he can't find it in himself. It would be a brittle, twig-like thing, anyway, hardly worth the effort.

"Thank you for coming," she says, a very faint rasp in her voice. Up close, he can see the spools of exhaustion and grief that line her face. "I understand that you're a busy man."

"Not really. A perk of being rich is that you can get others to do all the work," he replies, taking a tiny pause before adding, "while you get to focus on the important things."

She smiles kindly. "He talked about you, you know. We were all so surprised to hear that he knew Tony Stark, but he said he only met you once or twice, by accident. Phil had this expression, it always made you think twice before asking a question. We wanted to know how he met you but he gave us that look and we let it drop."

Tony remembers that look. He had been confronted by it an extraordinary amount of times in between threats to use a Taser on him. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He coughs lightly and then dares to ask what Coulson thought of him.

"He said that you were the kind of person who wanted to help the world but didn't know how to help yourself. A difficult man, but a good man beneath it all." She laughs a sad, little laugh. "But what are men if not difficult, I asked him."

"He was a better man," Tony says sincerely. "A better hero."

Watching the news brings about a bittersweet ache when he sees men with goatees, women with red tattoos of spiders, children with small replicas of Captain America's shield, but nothing that's a shout-out to unsung heroes like Coulson.

"Thank you," Heather says again, touching his hand lightly. He nods and watches her step away and talk to someone else, braver than he had been during his parents' funeral. Tony didn't stay after his father and mother were finally lowered into the ground. He left Obie behind to deal with everyone who wanted to offer their sympathies and hid in the family mansion for weeks afterwards, meandering between his workshop and his bedroom, between alcohol and Obie's comfort.

Tony looks around, unable to see where Barton is or catch any hint of Romanov's bright hair. Rogers is nearby though and Tony considers slinking away before the other man can come over to initiate a conversation he doesn't have the strength for. It's a futile thought in the end – Rogers makes no move. Instead, he stares at Coulson's resting place, a still figure amongst still gravestones, and Tony doesn't know what to make of the unreadable expression on his face.

It takes a moment for him to realise that Rogers is adrift in his own thoughts, it takes another for the pain to set in with the ruthlessness of an uncaring scalpel carving into his chest. Tony, his eyes scratchy but desert dry all this time, suddenly wants to cry. He wants to fall to the floor, collapsing under sobs that spiral out from his very bones because he is alone, he is so terribly _alone_ , and he feels selfish for thinking like this at another man's funeral, but he can't stop himself. How many funerals has he missed, he wonders desperately, how many friends have gone into the ground while he dreamt a dreamless sleep, encased in ice? The answer is too many, too many for him to mourn but mourn them he will because he has no other choice – he has only pain and nightmares that are memories and memories that are dreams and he must go on, for Peggy, for Bucky, for everyone he thought he had died to save.

"-ny, Tony, what's wrong? Tony, why aren't you saying anything?"

Tony jumps. He blinks until Pepper comes into focus, looking almost as distraught as Tony feels. She has her hand atop his, which, he looks down to see, is settled over his arc reactor, his fingers digging painfully into the surrounding area in a vain effort to pry out his too feeling heart. "Steve," he forces out, voice wrecked with an anguish not his own. Pepper has pulled them away from everyone, nearer to the wall of trees enclosing the cemetery, and he looks around wildly for the source of this harrowing despair.

"He's not here," Pepper is saying. "Is he in trouble? Tony? Tony, is he in trouble?"

If he had been brave, brave like Heather, brave like Coulson, Tony would search Rogers out. But he isn't brave today and he wants to run away and immerse himself in his own pain for a while longer.

"I need to go," he says with a touch of hysteria. "I can't stay here, I need to go _right now_."

Pepper doesn't ask. She only throws her arms around him and whispers, "yes, of course, go, take the car. Just, call me later, let me know that you're okay?"

Tony nods and doesn't look back as he flees into the safety of the car.

+

The week that follows is a long, melancholy week where the still unstable Bond channels their roiling emotions back and forth, like disjointed, distressing messages across a faulty telephone line. Tony doesn't know what to do with himself most of the time. Driven to distraction, he walks around as if bubbled in a haze, slow in his responses to Bruce's questions or Pepper's calls and even slower in completing any work. In the background, JARVIS counts down the days until the Bond finally evens out and stops throwing their every feeling at each other.

In these seven days, Tony learns two things. They aren't necessarily new things but now that he is caught in the swell of Rogers' misery, he has never been more aware of them. The first is the knowledge that people contain whole worlds of feelings inside of them – whole worlds of hurt, of happiness, of love, of terror. The second is that Tony isn't the only broken one in this equation. Steve Rogers may have fractured along different lines and to a different depth but beneath the shiny surface of Captain America, he, too, is just shards of a man instead of a complete whole. These realisations sadden Tony more than he is comfortable with and he tries burying them through submerging himself in deafening music and the blue lights of schematics.

Sunday – ten days left, JARVIS told him today – finds Kansas as the band of the day and Tony busying himself with devouring doughnuts, fiddling with a carburettor he didn't know he had laying around, and barely refraining from calling Pepper to tell her that he loves how she spoils him because, God, these _doughnuts_. He's wasted away hours he could've spent working on Bruce's suite, though, if asked, he could not have said exactly what he's been doing. It's a different way of losing time than he's normally accustomed to.

The music softens a little and JARVIS interjects with, "incoming call from Captain Rogers, sir."

Tony tries not to choke on the (delicious, so delicious) piece in his mouth. He coughs anyway and swallows, muttering irritably, "and where exactly did he get my number."

"A number of possibilities, sir," JARVIS says. Tony reckons he needs to double check to see if he's programmed JARVIS to be able to detect rhetorical questions. "Colonel Fury, Agent Coulson prior to the Chitauri attack, Agent Romanoff, Dr. Banner, Ms. Potts –"

" _Pepper_? When would Pepper have – you think she's being sneaky behind the scenes? SHIELD and their PhD in sneakiness have been a bad influence on her."

"As opposed to your influence?"

"Touché, JARVIS, touché." Tony salutes with sticky, sugar encrusted fingers. "Uh, don't let it through. I'm not in."

"Very well, sir." Five minutes later, JARVIS says, "Captain Rogers has left you a message."

Tony contemplates having it deleted as he pulls out the last doughnut and munches slowly. He manages to hold out for ten minutes before succumbing to curiosity. "Alright, fine. Play it."

The music cuts off completely, the workshop descending into complete silence for a second, and then Rogers' voice trickles crisp and clear out of the speakers.

"Hi, Tony," he says, and it's a far cry from that first hushed and awed _Tony_ he had uttered back at SHIELD headquarters, but it's still enough to make Tony fidget. "You probably aren't going to listen to this, but I thought I should let you know anyway. There are a few things I need to do, so I won't be around for, well, a month, I guess. The space will do us some good, anyway, clear our heads. But after that," he sighs here, "is the part you really won't like. I'm coming back to see you. I don't think it's a good idea to leave things the way they are right now." A pause stretches its long arms out. JARVIS has yet to announce the end of the message so it's just Rogers delaying or perhaps thinking of what else to say. Tony can already imagine the small frown tugging those eyebrows together. "We'll figure this out together. I'll see you soon," Rogers says, considerably gentler.

"That is the end of the message, sir."

Tony absentmindedly taps out a rhythm against the arc reactor, leaving behind specks of sugar. Malibu, draped in sunlight and blessedly free of trouble, gleams invitingly in his mind. Dealing with Stark Tower, becoming the biggest name in clean energy has kept him away from the mansion, and it's not like he actually needs a reason to fly over to (one of) his home(s). On the other hand, there _are_ several reasons that tie him to New York, including but not limited to the reparations he's funding and Pepper's wrath if he uses the other house to avoid Rogers.

It's not exactly a secret that Captain America doesn't know how to give up. Tony's father once said it, the propaganda reels from the nineteen forties said it, and Tony saw it for himself in the set jaw of Steve's face. He should've known that sooner or later, it would be turned towards him.

Tony groans in frustration, licks his fingers clean, and turns back to the neglected carburettor. "I don't even know why I have this or what to do with it." He pokes it once before groaning again, leg bouncing up and down in agitation. "I need to smash something up. No, I need a drink and _then_ I need to smash something up."

"Is that wise, sir?"

"JARVIS, I didn't create you because I lacked a mother," he says, waving a hand, disgruntled. Tony is aware that he's falling back into drinking too much too often again but only in the same vague way that he's aware of clouds in the sky or puddles of rain on the pavement. It's easier when he's had a few drinks. A good swig of scotch fills in the cracks in his act and makes it perfect, every gesture coming out that much more smoother and every smirk that much more relaxed. Tony has given some of his more eloquent speeches and lectures with veins of liquor, and drawn people into his bed just as easily (or maybe that second part was just because of the 'billionaire' frequently placed before his name or his being a playboy or Obie's machinations).

"If your alcohol intake continues to increase, protocol will force me to contact Ms. Potts."

"Huh. Forgot about that." One of his brighter moments, clearly. "Actually, where's Bruce? I haven't seen him all day. I didn't see him yesterday, either. Has he been sneaking off to the back of the shed with a lab technician?"

"Dr. Banner is currently off premises. To my knowledge, he is not engaged in romantic dalliances with anyone."

"Uh, wow, okay. Who says 'dalliance' anymore? I feel like I should make fun of you for the rest of eternity for that."

"Over the years, you have provided me with plenty of ammunition to retaliate with. I almost feel spoiled for choice."

Tony pulls a face. "I cannot believe you, JARVIS, where's the loyalty? God, Banner's probably got a hot date and I've got—" he pauses, wondering if it'd be wrong to say no one even if that's technically true. Pepper is beyond his reach now, a star that has shifted on its course and he can only watch from a distance what blazing path she takes. Rhodey is in another continent and he's not even going to think about Rogers. "A carburettor," he says eventually. It sounds so very dull and pitiful in the quiet.

A faint whirring is the only indication of DUM-E rolling up next to him, a metal arm extended to grab at the empty box of doughnuts and throw it away. Tony pats him. "And you. I've got a carburettor and you, buddy."

"Is three a crowd, sir, or am I included?"

Tony barks out a laugh that's always a little harsh and unpolished at the edges when he's genuinely surprised. "The more, the merrier, baby. Butterfingers, U, don't think I've forgotten the two of you either. Let's have ourselves an orgy to blow all other orgies out of the water."

"I can hardly wait," JARVIS says, in the perfectly dry tone that belonged to his namesake. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful response so far! Please have some of the osm that is Rhodey. <3

"I should kick your ass for leaving it to Pepper to fill me in," Rhodey says grumpily, fixing Tony with a glare the moment he's off the plane.

Tony pushes himself off the car and shrugs as innocently as he can. "I haven't seen you in months, cupcake, so I decide to surprise you by picking you up and this is how you greet me? I'm beginning to regret all the pining I've done these long, lonely nights."

"Pining? You've been pining for someone to annoy, yeah, that's what you've been pining for."

"Awww, baby, you say that like it's a bad thing."

"Burger. Beer. Your secrets. Upgrades for War Machine. In that order."

"Look who's being a bossy little Dom," Tony laughs, repeating, "c'mon, sourpatch, sourpatch, sourpatch," until Rhodey pulls him into a hug to shut him up. It lasts longer than their usual hug-and-pat-on-the-back. Rhodey hugs him tight like he's holding something he'd almost lost (that's because he is, they both are) and Tony can't see his expression, but he remembers the way Rhodey looked after he had found him in the desert in Afghanistan, the relief that dotted his face as surely as sweat. Tony presses the smiling curve of his mouth into Rhodey's shoulder, whispering, "missed you, buddy," and relishes the "me, too," he gets back.

The car ride, as most car rides, plane rides, or just general travelling from point A to point B with Rhodey tend to be, consists of squabbling and Rhodey deploring Tony's taste in music while Tony tries to placate him by calling him everything from a peach cobbler to a sperm whale. They end up at the same burger joint they always go to (the burgers there meet Tony's preference a hundred times over and Rhodey likes to watch Tony futilely flirt with the blue-haired waitress, who always has three insults ready for him) and order their usual. With a weary sigh, Tony takes off his shades and squints even though the lightning isn't too bright.

"Headache?" Rhodey asks casually enough.

Tony glowers. "Yes, it's a headache, and no, it's not a hangover."

Rhodey holds his hands up. "I didn't say anything."

The waitress, Macy, comes by with their food, her face fixed into the same bored expression it has always had. Nothing ever seems to change that dour look, not the most adorable child or, to his constant chagrin, Tony's good looks. "Enjoy your meal," she says monotonously, giving Tony a significantly grimmer look than she does Rhodey. Tony opens his mouth. "No, Mr. Stark."

"But I haven't even—"

"No."

Rhodey sniggers as she walks away, shaking his head. "You didn't even get insult number one from her today. I thought that'd be a good thing but it's just a new low for you."

"Keep laughing, honey bear. All this means is that I'm going to _enjoy my meal_ ," he raises his voice so that it carries over to Macy, "very loudly and enthusiastically and you might very well die of embarrassment."

And Rhodey _does_ look like he'll die of embarrassment when Tony bites into his burger and makes the most obscene noises he can muster even as Rhodey frantically kicks him under the table.

"Alright, alright, geez, stop it with the abuse," Tony finally protests, his tone clashing with the carefree grin on his face. He's missed this thing he has with Rhodey, this easy camaraderie that he doesn't even need to think about, just slips into like slipping into old, comfortable shoes.

Rhodey relents and, with a grin of his own, turns his attention to his own meal. They eat in near-silence but only because Rhodey refuses to talk first and he knows that both silence and impatience will grate away Tony's stubbornness until he divulges everything on his own. 

"So," Tony begins abruptly, ignoring the triumph on Rhodey's face. "I take it that you won't drop this if I throw food at you? How about money? Strippers? Oh, I know, I know, _cars_."

"Superhero team, Tony. With _Captain America_."

"Rhodey, I know this may sound like a difficult request but please don't orgasm here. I know you're a big fan-boy of the good Captain, but I hear people mind that sort of thing in public places with children around."

There is a perfectly good opportunity here to laugh and point out that Tony is the last person on Earth and a few other planets to be saying this, but, perhaps more wisely, Rhodey chooses to ignore him. "I think I should at least get a phone call. I don't care if I'm in Middle Earth at the time. I want a phone call, Tony."

"Seriously? But what if Sauron was, like, minutes away from winning and you were the last hope of—" Rhodey glares at him. "Uh, I mean, I didn't want to make you jealous now that there are new contestants vying for my affection?"

"How considerate of you. I think I would have gotten over the heartbreak if I put my mind to it." The sarcasm isn't as effective when Rhodey's got a mouthful of fries. Tony would be more disgusted if he wasn't stuffing his own mouth with fries.

"So. The Avengers. That's all Pepper talked to you about? No more gossip about me? It's okay, I know how chatty you kids get."

"We had to leave some time to talk about our nails and hair," Rhodey says dryly but all too quickly his expression turns into suspicion. "Unless there's something else?"

"Well, if you don't stop looking like a shark that's just scented blood, I won't be telling you anything."

"Tony."

"Alright, so there might be. It's not good news though, even if Pepper disagrees." Tony pushes his food away. His mouth tightens, shoulders coming up almost defensively like he needs protection from his own admission. He leans in and murmurs so quietly that Rhodey has to ask him to repeat it. "I've Bonded," he says again, tersely. Rhodey gawks at him, bewildered. "See! Bad thing, right? Your expression says it all. I'm so glad you understand. It's been fucking _terrible_ , Rhodey, absolutely awful, I don't know why people want something like this." Rhodey's lips move without sound. "Okay, I know I've kind of dropped a bomb on you but it'd be nice if you say something right now. Rhodey? Dreamboat? Sugarpuff? Please?"

"Tony," Rhodey says eventually, " _Tony_ , you're Bonded? That's—" He leans back in his seat with shocked laughter. "You are one lucky sonuvabitch, I'll give you that."

"No, no, not a lucky sonuvabitch, a very unlucky sonuvabitch. JARVIS, back me up here, oh, wait, he's not here, why isn't he here, that's it, new idea—"

Rhodey seizes the burger wrapper that Tony is looking to scribble on. "Tony, focus. Who's your Bonded? Guy or girl? Anyone I know? It'd better be someone I like. This is crazy. First the Avengers and now you're..." Rhodey frowns. "Wait a minute," he says.

"Um," Tony says.

"It's one of the Avengers, isn't it?"

"What makes you think that?" Tony says primly.

"Deductive reasoning," Rhodey counters smoothly. "And you're not outright denying it. Which one is it? Spill it, Stark."

Tony groans and hides his face in the table, mumbling the name.

"I didn't catch that."

Tony pulls his head up. "...Rogers."

Rhodey stares at him. And then, "... _Captain America?!_ "

"Yes, Captain America, oh my God, Rhodey, why are you standing up, sit down right now," Tony hisses, pulling Rhodey back down. "People in fucking Mars heard you there."

"Captain America," Rhodey repeats. "Jesus, Tony, you don't do anything by halves, do you?"

"You make it sound like I deliberately chose him." Tony shrugs, staring down at the table with a scowl, reaching for the burger wrapper again. He holds it between his thumbs and index fingers, the rest of his fingers fanning out like calloused wings, and deftly rips it apart. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want it."

The brightness of Rhodey's grin dims and sputters out. "But why?"

Tony slumps down. "I'm not submitting to anyone, Rhodey. Not anymore."

Disbelievingly, Rhodey whispers, "but, Tony, this is more than just the usual relationship. This is a Bond."

"No," Tony says hotly, his hands moving upwards violently and scattering the pieces of paper. "No, it isn't. Can't you see that? It's exactly the same, just with added frustration because everyone's so convinced this is the best thing ever when what it really is is some sort of fucking trap. I walked right into the last one; I'm not going to do the same again." The look Rhodey gives him – not pity, but something so very sad that it drives into his chest knife-sharp – makes Tony grit his teeth and stand up brusquely. "There's a party I need to go tonight, I should go and get ready." He throws cash onto the table without looking, shoves his shades on and walks out. Rhodey hurries out behind him.

"Hey, Tony, wait! Look, I'll come with you."

"I'm not going to get drunk, Rhodey. I don't need you to babysit me."

"Yeah, you won't, but I think _I_ need to get drunk. Besides, you promised me a whole day. This the way you treat all your dates?"

Tony frowns, touching his temple. His headache is still thrumming a steady beat and he would prefer just going home and not moving for the next few hours, but making public appearances helps further with the funding needed to get New York back onto its feet.

"Headache getting worse?"

"I'm _fine_ , Rhodey."

"That's not what I'm seeing."

"Alright, so I'm not fine exactly, but I'm dealing with it. Just let me." Rhodey looks at him, unconvinced, as they both climb into the car. "It's just the Bond, it's still acting up, that's all."

+

The party, as it turns out, isn't a good idea.

Everything is too bright, too loud, and Tony wants to leave the moment he steps in. He wants to grab onto Rhodey and hunt down that beer Rhodey said he wanted. He does neither, though, only smirks cocksure at faces that will eventually blur into one another, trading those same smirks for genuine smiles when he is approached by people with sincere _thank you_ s. For every one who thanks him, he thanks them in return but doesn't say why, doesn't say _thank you for believing in us, in me_.

The host of the party, Drew Paulsen, head of one of the biggest media companies in the country, pulls Tony into the centre of the room, introducing him needlessly to the crowd. Tony untangles himself as neatly as he can. Rhodey looks like he wants to follow and drag Tony back and away from all the eyes.

"Hi," Tony says. "So, I could stand here and talk about, I don't know, the food – it's great, by the way, what's in those prawns? – or about myself – like I've got anything new to add that the press hasn't said already – but you and I both know that's not what's important right now. I mean, _aliens_. And not even the fun kind." He makes a face and the low sound of chuckles ripples across the guests. "I've been going around the city and it's, it's pretty bad, but it's getting better. Not that I'm surprised, really, because New Yorkers? We're something else." Drew chooses that moment to whoop loudly, slinging an arm around Tony's shoulders and joined by cheering from everyone else. "I guess," Tony continues, "what I'm saying is, thanks to everyone who's been out there, helping out, and who's donating and it'd be great if you continued what you're doing."

"Tony Stark, everyone," Drew exclaims right next to his ear and Tony has to smother a flinch at the volume.

"I'll just go and get a drink," he says, coming out from under Drew's arm.

People flock to him unbidden as he moves towards the champagne fountain, but it no longer thrills him as much as it used to. The coquettish looks and abundant compliments, they're all a drink he's sipped too many times and is steadily losing the taste for. He waves Rhodey off when Rhodey starts walking over, mouthing "no babysitting", and gesturing towards a long-legged woman with an encouraging grin.

Initially, there's a brunette who loops her arm delicately around his, but when he looks at her again, it's a redhead who smiles back at him coyly, long fingers stroking the lapels of his tuxedo. She also disappears at one point, her place assumed by a tanned, relatively unknown celebrity Tony thinks he might have seen on some teen show, the ones with young, bulky men who went around shirtless all of the time. As he makes his way around the room, it changes again and then again and then again (but never to anyone who is blond, because this, if nothing else, is something Tony remains conscious of). After a while, he stops asking for names. None of them are Pepper, he thinks, oblivious to the camera flashes that wink and wink at him.

When Rhodey rejoins him, he assumes it's yet another stranger until Rhodey pulls him aside. He drags Tony towards an empty balcony far away from everyone, closing the glass double doors behind them before saying, "you really think you should be letting those people hang off your arm like that? It's going to end up in a newspaper or some magazine."

"I'm aware of that? That's what usually happens?" Tony says. Rhodey rolls his eyes at him. "Oh. _Oh_. I see what you're getting at. Yeah, you're right, that's not fair on Pepper."

"That's only half of it. You're forgetting the big, blond half."

"I thought we both agreed that you'd be dropping that if you came along with me tonight. It's bad enough having Pepper throw him in my face, which is not acceptable behaviour from an ex by the way. She should not be encouraging me to move on like that."

"Throwing things at you seems to be a pretty good way for you to notice them."

"I notice things, I notice _plenty_ of things without them being thrown at me, but this doesn't include the tie that you're wearing because that is atrocious," Tony puts on an appropriately disgusted sneer, "and I'm pretty sure that the way you are practically throwing it at me right now is outlawed in some states."

Rhodey makes a show of glancing around. "Well, how about that, Tony, this appears to not be one of those states," he says, speaking over Tony's snort. "There is nothing wrong with this tie and you're not even being subtle about your deflecting."

That thickens the tightness in Tony's shoulders. "Can I just get one conversation where no one brings him up? Is that too much to ask? I think I liked you better when you were still overseas."

Rhodey raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "You know, if I had my way, I wouldn't be gone so much."

"It's fine, sourpatch. I've gotten used to living life as the forgotten wife." He pats Rhodey congenially on the shoulder.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Tony says. He turns to look outside, leaning his elbows on the balustrade.

Rhodey sighs the Tony-your-life-choices-make-me-want-to-weep sigh. "Listen, as much as I think you're being a dumbass, you're my friend and if you want to play it safe, fine, that's your decision."

"It is. It is my decision," Tony agrees vehemently.

Rhodey just looks at him, taken aback, and slowly says, "yeah, it is. No one said it isn't."

"I know you think I'm just being difficult, but I have my reasons—"

"Yeah, I know your reasons, I wish I had shot your reasons right in his slimy face—"

"You're not a murderer, Rhodey," Tony says, his tone light, his eyes anything but.

"I'm a soldier, Tony," Rhodey replies, knowing that Tony hears the implication clearly enough. "And I saw you afterwards. I can't think of a single person who wouldn't want a bullet in him after that."

He's talking about the months after Obie's death, when Tony alternated frenetically between hunting down those who still had his weapons and disappearing for days at a time into the Malibu mansion, skittish and obsessive and furious because, _fuck_ , Obie, Obie who was supposed to love him and take care of him had turned around and tried to kill him. And Tony had killed Obie instead. He watched him be engulfed in fire and explode into fleshy pieces and then watched it all over again in his dreams.

It would have been easier, Tony thinks, if it was just Obie's betrayal that he had to overcome (and even that seemed like an impossibility, because Tony had no idea how to claw out someone who had been as constant as the blood in his veins, he still has no idea) but then, there was the guilt calcifying in his stomach. A horrible, nauseating guilt that had Tony, at times, laughing hysterically because it was hilarious, it was so fucking hilarious that his Dom was the one who betrayed him, but it was Tony who was left to battle with some warped kind of remorse for not giving in to Obie's desire to see him dead. 

Tony laughs now, suddenly and harshly, disturbing the still night and startling Rhodey beside him.

"Tony?"

"What?" Tony says. "Oh, it's nothing, don't worry about it. Just feeling a little tipsy, that's all. Look, I need time, Rhodey. You can't expect me to just jump into a relationship. I'll ease up a little, alright? Maybe not outright ignore Rogers. But I need to think."

Rhodey is slow in answering. "Okay, yeah, I get that," he says. He takes another pause and asks almost wonderingly, "what does it feel like? Bonding, I mean."

Tony stares unseeingly at the dark silhouettes of buildings standing against a darker sky. He still doesn't know how to explain it. The right words remain infuriatingly out of his grasp and words seem insufficient anyway, too small and meagre to encapsulate the set of contradictions he felt himself become when he touched Rogers that day. "I don't know how to describe it to you," he admits. "It's like – like parts of you have been moved to make space for someone else?"

"Like that whole two-people-in-one-body idea in those novels Pepper reads?"

"Yeah, something like that, but even that doesn't sound entirely right _._ " Tony snickers. "I knew you read them, Rhodey, I knew it was you. And she always blames me for stealing them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Rhodey says quickly.

Tony _hmm_ s sceptically, tilting his head up skywards. Rhodey mimics him and they stare at New York's smog and the stars that peek through like playful children, silent except for the soft wisps of music sneaking outside through the doors.

Tony tears his gaze away. Very seriously, he says, "Rhodey, I am not going to stand here and stargaze with you. Things have not gotten _that_ bad."

"You don't know how fucking glad I am to hear that," Rhodey sighs with such obvious relief that Tony has to laugh. "I was wondering if that was a constellation of a bear or a hippogriff or something. Come on, let's get outta here. I know a place. It has good beer and hell, I'll even throw in some doughnuts too."

Tony straightens himself and, with the first easy smile of the night, says, "how could I ever refuse such an offering? By all means, steal me away, hotshot."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One final blowup and then things will start to look up from now on, I swear. (Well, sort of, anyway.)

"Tony, my boy," Obie says, a grin on his face, a cigar in his hand. Tony stands in the doorway, slumped, staring out through barely open eyes. "Long night at the office?"

"I've had long nights. Tonight was something else," Tony mumbles, a definite slur to his words. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, a wooden construct. He thinks he should be saying something else, something that tastes like hatred and rage, like _you should be dead you son of a bitch_ but he doesn't know why. This is Obie, who loves him even though he's a walking, talking train wreck half the time and who he trusts with every inch of him.

Obie looks at him, quiet, evaluative, like he's waiting for Tony to speak some more. Tony doesn't. Obie puts his cigar down and holds his arms wide open, less of an invitation and more of a wordless command to come over. The ring on his left hand catches the light, gleams a warm gold.

Tony shuffles over through lightly smoky air, his limbs heavy like he's wading through deep, uncooperative water. It shouldn't be so difficult to go to Obie and yet it is, as if something is warring against Tony, trying to keep him away. Obie is warm, too warm, and it should be uncomfortable but Tony just burrows into him further, breathing in the oaky smell of Obie's cologne. It reminds him of exotic forests, a wide expanse of green shimmering under dappled sunlight.

"So tense, Tony," Obie says. "I'll fix that for you, hmm? I'll take care of you."

Tony makes a soft noise of assent and relief that's muffled by Obie's shirt. To be taken care of is all he wants, really.

A hand pulls at his hair and Tony lets it fall backwards in compliance, welcoming the kiss. At MIT, giving into peer pressure and his own curiosity, he had smoked a few cigarettes here and there, barely keeping his face straight as he swallowed against the slow burn in his throat and the bitter taste of nicotine in his mouth. He wasn't much of a smoker, not like some of the other boys, not like Obie. Obie often tastes like the cigars he smokes. This time, the cigar is a Quintero Brevas, a soft creamy flavour with a hint of spiciness at the back that Tony is fond of.

Tony sways against the steady hands running over his tense back, the fingertips pressing assuredly into the knots that have formed. Obie is perfect at this, he knows exactly how to treat Tony and take care of him, so why some part of Tony is screaming for him to turn and run is beyond him. He sways, instead, sways and relaxes and weakens (like prey charmed into making a mistake, a small, inexplicably frightened part of him is screaming now).

Unexpectedly, Obie's hands come up around his neck, tight but not painful, not yet, the metal of his ring as cold as the feeling welling in the pit of Tony's stomach. "You kept me waiting, Tony. You know I don't like that."

"I'm sorry," Tony whispers, looking down, swallowing nervously, looking back up. Again, strange, angry, desperate words rise up in him. _Get off me, don't touch me, God, I want to wake up, let me wake up please._ "I know, I didn't mean to, there was just so much to do and," he cuts himself off, because Obie's displeased and excuses won't help him now. He needs to get rid of that look on Obie's face and replace it with a smile. "Tell me how I can make it up to you, sir."

"Normally, I wouldn't be so annoyed with you. I'd let it go like how I let go all of the other things you do." Obie's thumbs brush against the soft stretch of Tony's throat gently but still with that lingering promise of pain. "But I had something to talk about with you. Something important."

"Sir?"

"See, I talked to Bolton today. He told me he'll be happy to accept our deal with his company. Do you know what else he told me?"

"No, sir."

"He told me that you let him fuck you. Is that true, Tony? Did you?"

"You said to make him happy. You said that that's what you wanted."

"Did I? I don't remember ever telling you to let him fuck you. Give him a hand job, suck him off, do anything but fuck him. That's only for me to do, Tony. Only me."

Tony pales. Bolton had been insistent, had stroked Tony's face encouragingly, coaxed him into it and Tony let him, thinking that it would please Obie.

"Tony, Tony, why do you do this to yourself? To me?" Obie asks despairingly. "I don't want to punish you, but you forget when you're not meant to and it leaves me with no choice."

Tony looks down at the buttons of Obie's shirt, the onset of shame creeping over him, and in his distraction he momentarily forgets the heavy hands at his neck until they dig into his skin, vicious and unrelenting, pushing him down onto his knees.

"Look at you, you're not even listening right now," Obie barks, irritated. "I thought I trained you better than that."

Tony smells more of Obie's cologne, thinks of forests again, but it isn't so appealing anymore. The trees loom closely over the ground, trapping him, obscuring the light and enfolding him in impenetrable darkness. He chokes, clawing with blunt nails at Obie's hands, trying to speak, to apologise, to plead, Obie likes it when he pleads and Tony's become _so good_ at it.

But Obie only tightens his grip, pushing his own nails into Tony's throat, pushing pushing pushing—

Tony jolts upwards in his bed with a strangled yell, gasping, hands already jumping up to his neck to check for phantom bruises. Obie had never hurt him physically (not intentionally and outside of punishments). His weapon of choice was always words, but in his dreams there isn't a secret to keep, there isn't a need for Obie to hide what he was doing.

Around him, JARVIS turns the lights on, not too bright but enough to make the darkness dissolve into a bearable dimness.

"Pepper," Tony croaks out, reaching out blindly to the side for her reassuring warmth. He wants whatever comfort she can give him, but she doesn't move or say anything and his fingers find empty, cold space. He can't remember at all if she even came to bed tonight or is still out in the living room, working through paperwork in the steady manner that he always lacked. "JARVIS, where's—"

"Ms. Potts does not live at this residence and has stopped staying overnight since two weeks ago."

"What? Don't be..." He stops, tries to think beyond the harshness of his breaths, and remembers.

"Shall I contact her, sir? Or perhaps Colonel Rhodes?"

Pepper and Rhodey always assume that his nightmares centre around Afghanistan, which is true only half the time. It's getting worse now, more and more dreams with Obie at the centre, instigated by the fear that history might repeat itself with Rogers.

"No, don't bother them."

A beat, and then, "shall I call Captain Rogers?"

Yes.

" _No_. God, no, not him. Just...play something. Anything." Slowly, Tony sinks back into his bed and flings an arm over his eyes. He breathes shakily and tries for flippancy. "Except for country music. I'll do something nasty to you if you play fucking country music."

"As you wish, sir."

Tony is too tired to rebuke him when JARVIS opts to play a song that is not a song at all. It lacks rhythm or beats, but has words, and one of them is Tony's name.

 _I'm coming back to see you_ , Rogers says and then, softly, softly, _we'll figure this out together, I'll see you soon._

No one is there to witness – no one save for JARVIS who is as silent as tombs – how Tony clutches at Rogers' voice like it's a tangible thing and allows himself to wish in the almost darkness of his bedroom that it was, just so that he could cocoon himself in it.

_I'll see you soon._

JARVIS leaves the message on repeat as Tony breathes. In and out and then in again, lungs filling up with the air that Obie had denied him in the dream.

+

In hindsight, Tony should have seen it coming, what with all of Rhodey's warnings.

They're coming back from a drive around the city, throats dry as husk and lethargy stirred by the sweltering heat sitting deep in their muscles as they both drag themselves into the Tower. It's when the lift is gliding to the penthouse that Tony realises and it's a swift blow to his chest, this anger that is more heated than the summer air and yet threatens to send a shiver dancing across his skin. He knows who it comes from, who waits for him inside.

"Hey, you okay?" Rhodey asks.

Tony ignores him, hauling himself out of the sluggishness the weather and Rhodey's relaxed company has sprung upon him. "JARVIS," he snaps.

"You expressly ordered not to be disturbed, sir. Captain Rogers arrived with Dr. Banner three hours and thirty seven minutes ago. He then left and returned again and has been waiting since. He is currently alone."

"Well, shit," Rhodey says, frowning. "Will you tell him about Obie?"

"Pretty sure he's read my file," Tony replies.

"Obie being your Dom isn't in your file."

"I can barely talk about that with you and Pepper. How am I meant to talk about my fuck-ups with the paragon of virtue?"

"Then, what are you going to do?"

"The best defence is a good offence." Tony says, straightening himself with an unnatural rigidity that stands out all the more on a man who usually moves with such casual ease. He smirks at Rhodey. "Do you think he'll appreciate that, being a soldier?"

Rhodey puts a hand on the tense line of Tony's shoulders. "Whatever happens, Tony, I got your back."

"JARVIS, take Rhodey down to the workshop when I get out and cut the live camera feed for the penthouse." He adds, "wait for me there," just as the doors slide open.

New York sprawling lazily in unforgiving sunlight is a welcome sight. Tony looks at that first and then at the figure standing at the window, his back to the lift, second. He steps out and waits for the near silent hum of the lift to restart and take Rhodey away.

The room feels small and stifling already, which should be an absurdity in any building belonging to Tony Stark. The magazine that Rhodey had carelessly thrown on the small table some time ago feels like a damning piece of evidence. Tony wants to grab it and rip it up, tear jagged zigzags through his own face on the cover where he's winking over the top of his sunglasses at a woman he'll never see again. He didn't bother with reading the article inside; it was enough seeing the words "Trouble in Paradise for Tony Stark and Pepper Potts?" in purple blocky print.

"Lovely to see you, Captain," Tony says slowly, his glib tongue rendered clumsy. "I was hoping you would have changed your mind about coming over."

Rogers turns around, emblazoned by the sun from behind like he's emerging from the light, every inch the righteous hero in those olden paintings that Pepper adores. But there is ice in the blue of his eyes and Tony can't return the gaze. It chills him to see cold fury in his Bonded, makes his knees shake, an apology already on his tongue, but he catches himself in time. It's like and unlike being back on the Helicarrier again.

"I stick to my word, Mr. Stark," Rogers says. Tony wonders if there is an accusation somewhere in there. He wonders and avoids thinking of how only last week, he had clung to that voice for comfort.

"Men who stick to their word are so rare these days. Good thing we have you around. So did it work then? Running off to clear your head?"

"Not as well as I'd hoped, no."

"Pity," Tony says. He waits for Rogers to say something more and is subjected to an uncomfortable silence instead. For all the anger Tony can sense lurking in the other man, Rogers is surprisingly content with remaining quiet. Maybe he thinks if he is silent long enough, Tony will see reason on his own, maybe kneel at his feet and ask for forgiveness. "Why don't you just spit out?" Tony asks impatiently. "You're angry. I can tell. Just start shouting and get it over with."

"Is that what you want? For me to act like a bully so you can justify pushing me away?"

"If you're not here to claim your privilege of venting at your poor little sub, then why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you," Rogers murmurs quietly. "I told you. I want us to figure this out together."

The confession makes Tony flounder. He stares wordlessly, raises a hand to run it through his hair and drops it midway. It's a tell and a too obvious one at that. The best defence is a good offence, he reminds himself. "And I told you that there's nothing here to figure out. We go our separate ways. So, we Bonded. I don't want it. You can't force me to want it. Life goes on."

"So I noticed." Rogers gestures to the magazine on the table with a dip of his head. "Looks like you've been having a good time." Tony shrugs. "I didn't know that you have someone. You should have told me."

"Had. I _had_ someone. She left me recently." It's the first time since the breakup that he's actually said the words to anyone else, including Rhodey.

"So, you've been trying to find someone else?" Rogers can't conceal the curtness of his tone.

Tony shakes his head, not in denial (though he certainly does deny it) but to cast away the memories stirring like sleeping ghosts roused into consciousness. He says, loudly, so that he doesn't have to hear Obie's voice, "disappointed that it isn't you? That's why you're angry, isn't it? Because I'd rather go to someone else than to you?"

"You have a _reputation_ ," Rogers says. Tony tries not to flinch and think about all the vile things he's done that made that reputation in the first place. "Bonding wasn't something you were expecting and you're not quite ready to let go of sleeping around. Genius, billionaire, _playboy_ , philanthropist. I remember, Stark."

Rogers is so entirely mistaken that it's perfect. Tony sees the opportunity in it, so he sucks in a breath and then expels, "yeah, yeah, that's exactly it. What can I say? I'm a man of pleasure. I love getting fucked too much, can't let it go, it's an itch that never goes away. Clever Captain America, nothing gets by you, does it?" The wrongness of the lie leaves behind smarting cuts in his mouth but he won't take them back. If he can just make Rogers snap, then it'll be okay.

"I get it, alright?" Rogers says lowly. "You're Tony Stark, the world is obsessed with you, you can get anyone you want. And me? I'm just a kid from Brooklyn. Everything special about me came out of a bottle, isn't that what you said?" It's so very brief and Tony almost misses the moment where the anger vanishes, an expression open and terrible like a fresh wound taking its place before that, too, vanishes. "Yeah, maybe you're right," Rogers continues, "but I know that I don't deserve to be treated like this. Not by you. _Especially_ not by you."

"I know," Tony says. "You're right. You don't. But didn't you get the memo? I'm an asshole to everyone. No exceptions."

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" Rogers laughs self-deprecatingly. "I'm such an idiot for giving a damn about this. You don't care at all, do you?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Tony says, far weaker than he intended but not any less sincere for it. He licks his dry lips.

"No, if you did, you wouldn't be—" Rogers looks again at the magazine, at Tony's flirtations captured and embellished with a glossy sheen. The restraint is palpable in the tense lines of his body. "Fine. Have it your way, Stark. I'd rather not waste anymore of my time." He draws himself up as if he doesn't loom over Tony anyway, his jaw tightening, and storms towards the lift.

Tony doesn't make it to the workshop in the end.

Rhodey comes up after a while to find him at the window, in the exact spot Rogers was standing. His hands are tightly balled into fists, resting against the glass. The magazine is torn into pieces around him.

"The best defence is a good offence," Tony says bleakly. He's lost count of how many times he's said it now.

Rhodey, because he is a better man than Tony, doesn't say _I told you so_ and only asks, "is it?"

Tony stares down at the path that he watched Rogers take on his motorcycle. He drove him off but couldn't bear not watching him go, after all. "I don't know," he says and it's the most truthful thing he's said all day. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a point to this chapter. I swear it.

Most of Tony's best work springs out of a need to escape his troubles. He isn't the first person to function like this and he certainly won't be the last, but he is perhaps one of the messiest.

The first fragments of code that would eventually become JARVIS were first born after the death of his parents. Grief pushed Tony into the lab of the Stark family mansion and kept him confined there as tightly as stubborn fingers. Like his father, Tony could just as easily lose himself in his own work but it was different this time. It was far more necessary. Driven by a manic energy buzzing like livewire under his skin, Tony worked as if he felt neither tiredness nor the ache of his recent loss, fuelled by shots of alcohol and what little food and water Obie could force down his throat on his regular visits.

After the argument with Rogers, a strain of that same manic energy steers Tony deep into the building of Romanoff's suite. (Bruce's suite is already complete, the main issue had been ensuring that the rooms wouldn't collapse if the Hulk came out and after that, Tony had simply thrown in everything a scientist would have wet dreams about.)

Bruce comes to have a look sometimes while he's working. It's obvious now that he and Steve are friends and Tony isn't angry at him for anything, but they don't really talk either. Rhodey makes himself at home in a guest bedroom and tries to make Tony sleep when he can, although Tony is restless even in slumber. He almost forgets that Rhodey is going to be deployed overseas again until Rhodey comes by at seven in the morning, dressed in uniform, demanding a drive over to the airfield. Tony stares at him, plaster dusting his face, the faint taste of metal on his tongue from the wrench he absentmindedly put into his mouth before, and then nods jerkily.

It's Rhodey who drives, Tony sitting limp in the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded behind his sunglasses. It's still too hot and after the wonderful air conditioning in the Tower, they feel the heat more severely. They reach the airfield far too quickly; Tony must have blinked only five times between the Tower and their arrival. Rhodey doesn't get out immediately, tapping a slow rhythm with a finger against the steering wheel.

"Waiting for a kiss?" Tony says. What that's code for is, I'll be fine, get out of the damn car, Rhodey, _Jesus_.

Rhodey snorts, because he gets the message, and gets out, snatching up his bag from the backseat. "Take care of yourself," he says, somehow managing to sound threatening and worried at the same time.

"I should be saying that to you, shouldn't I?" The next time they'll see each other is months away, if not longer, and even as he's hugging him goodbye, Tony thinks he misses Rhodey already. He stands a little straighter when they let go, summoning cheer that's only a tiny bit forced into his voice. "I want regular declarations of love and devotion and just acknowledgement of how awesome I am via phone calls or texts, I'm not picky. You can even surprise me and go with both. And by regular, I mean every day."

"Bye, Tony," Rhodey laughs, walking up the stairs and into the plane.

"Every day, powerpuff! No, wait, that's a bit too much, isn't it?"

_"Bye, Tony."_

Tony stands and watches until he can't see Rhodey grinning anymore, until the plane is a little speck fighting valiantly against the brilliant blue around it, until someone clears their throat behind him, trying to discreetly tell him to leave. Tony sighs and does.

For a while, he drives around aimlessly. It takes being cooped up inside for days on end for him to realise that he actually does enjoy being outside in the fresh air. His shirt sticks to his skin but Tony barely registers the discomfort, lost in the drone of the highway and the airy feeling he gets when staring ahead at the interminable stretch of the road, the aching blue sky that whispers he can go on forever. Tony lives his life like this, storming ahead into each day without taking a moment to pause and breathe, jumping from one idea, one invention to another like it stings to linger on anything for too long. It's a tiring way to live, but it's the only way he knows.

Once, when he was sixteen, he entertained the thought of running away. Howard's eyes, too preoccupied with things that weren't always his family, would fail to notice and his mother, wilting from loneliness like a neglected flower, would be the same. He didn't know where he would go, only that he would pack some things in a backpack and go whichever way the wind was blowing. He would travel night and day, sleeping wherever he could, until his trainers had treaded a thousand miles and had holes in them and he had a story for each of those holes. A town would be waiting for him, a small town in the middle of nowhere, forgotten by the world, and, because this was his fantasy, nobody would think to look for him there. He'd be _happy_ and people would let him be.

It was a daydream he promptly set on fire. There were no spaces for daydreams alongside algorithms and equations and the need to be better.

Tony buys coffee that should most definitely rot his teeth and, when Bruce calls with an invitation to lunch, he gives into the compulsion to buy blueberries too. It's most likely an attempt on Bruce's part to comfort him but lunch is a good idea anyway, he tells himself, returning to the Tower with the intention of picking Bruce up. Bruce just shakes his head.

"We're walking there," he says, taking a handful of blueberries and popping them one by one in his mouth. He squints enough at Tony that Tony, feeling generous and a little sympathetic, hands over his shades with a sigh.

"You can't be serious," he says. "I feel tired just thinking about walking. Are you sure we can't just drive?"

Bruce shrugs, smiling his strange, little smile. "Think of the environment, Tony. Besides, it's not that hot."

Tony gapes at him. He gives Bruce an once-over, noticing for the first time that Bruce looks perfectly at ease in his light blue shirt and cream trousers and even happier than usual.

"India," Bruce says by way of explanation, waving around the hand that isn't holding onto a packet of blueberries. "You get used to it."

Grumbling half-heartedly, Tony goes inside to put away the doughnuts and find another pair of sunglasses, coming out of the building with purposeful strides, seemingly a man on a mission. He gestures for Bruce to lead the way. They don't speak at first, even though Tony feels the itch to, thinking of and then dropping topics of conversation rapidly. It hits him then, that, as they walk down the street, they're just two ordinary men (well, as ordinary as they could get) hanging out, alter egos within reach but hidden away. Tony gets looks thrown his way but no one interrupts them and it doesn't take away from the pleasant feel of normalcy.

The cafe Bruce takes them to is situated away from the busier roads. The walls and elegant furniture are all soft colours, blues, greens, violets that correspond with the tranquillity that Bruce has taken to searching out. They sit close to the windows but not right against them, so that Bruce can look out and watch everything beyond the pane of glass without being too obvious. Tony suspects it's a habit born out of having to look over his shoulder for so long.

"Do you come here often?" Tony asks, lazily pushing his sunglasses upwards into his hair. He already knows that Bruce does, not because he's looked into the other man's comings and goings but because the tension (always sitting beneath Bruce's skin, better now after staying at the Tower, but still there) in Bruce's body is easing away.

Bruce takes his own off, choosing to fiddle with it rather than set it down. "I guess so. Most of the time I'm not in the lab or in my room, you can pretty much find me here. It's quiet, relaxed, but not...there's always someone here. I don't mind company, I _like_ company, it's just that—"

"You had to avoid it because of the Other Guy."

"There's only so much work can help," Bruce says. Tony doesn't know if it's meant as advice, a warning, or just a simple fact. There is an air of infinite weariness about Bruce; it shades his every smile and every laugh like a recurring sickness, one that he can't escape even after running to India and trying to lose himself within her slums. It clings to his rumpled shirts, to the greying hair at his temple. Tony wonders what Bruce sees when he looks at Tony, if he sees a weary man too or something much more pitiful.

Tony grabs a menu to put a halt to his dour thoughts. "So, what's good here?"

"I always end up getting the pie of the day myself."

"Living it large, eh? Fine, I'll get that too. I haven't had a pie in, well, a very long time apparently since I can't remember. Honestly, coffee and doughnuts and burgers are the way to go."

"I think that sound we just heard was my pancreas complaining about you."

The waiter who comes over calls Bruce by his name, has a round, boyish face and gives a dopey grin that clearly makes Bruce's cheeks redden. Tony tries not to snort while Bruce orders for both of them and waits until the waiter is a safe distance away to whisper, "that guy is jailbait, Bruce, seriously, he's like twelve and this is not a teacher and student romance novel, which, by the way, I do not read because that is all Pepper. It's awful the kind of things that she reads."

"His name is Henry and he's twenty one, actually, and I am not – there's nothing go on between us. He's just, you know." Bruce sputters something else that's incomprehensible, appearing more flustered now than Tony's ever seen him.

"Enthusiastic about wanting to hump your leg like the adorable puppy that he is? Writing love letters on napkins that he daydreams about giving to you but eventually throws away in embarrassment afterwards? Again, haven't actually read anything so corny, all Pepper."

"Please don't let him hear you say that, I won't be able to show my face here ever again."

Tony sighs as if burdened. "Fine, fine. What do I care if you let yourself be the subject of a prepubescent's fantasies?"

"This almost makes me regret choosing this place for lunch."

"Only almost? Then clearly, I haven't done my job properly."

Bruce peers out of the window, a peculiar expression seated on his face. Tony looks outside too, trying to see what could cause such an expression and finding only a little jewellery store sitting next to a bookshop. Bruce turns back to him, clearing his throat. "So, any more progress on Natasha's suite since I last saw it?"

"Kind of? It's like sixty five percent complete now," Tony says, suddenly enthused. "I'll need Pepper to come by and add a feminine touch to it. She knows Natasha better than I do."

"Finally 'Natasha' then?"

"Well, seeing as I'm making her a place to live, I might as well get used to calling her that."

"I got the feeling that she liked you."

"And I like her. She's...efficient." They exchange an amused grin over how much of an understatement that is.

"I'm getting more and more curious about my own floor."

"You're going to love it. Just wait and see, it's like Geek Heaven," Tony says almost dreamily. 

"Did I see you with a Star Trek poster last week or was I imagining that?"

"Imagining. Definitely imagining that."

"If you say so." The look Bruce gives him is anything but convinced. "Are you sure I can't just move in? I mean, it'll just be relocating a few floors."

"As much as I'd like to let you, Brucie, I'll have to insist on everyone moving in together so I can amaze everyone all at the same time."

When their food arrives, Tony wisely says nothing, just flashes a grin in thanks to the waiter and starts digging in voraciously, commending Bruce's choice in between mouthfuls. Bruce's only response is to smile and, in a much calmer, neater manner, cut into his pie. Tony isn't a great fan of silence – not that that surprises anyone – but he doesn't mind the quiet that falls over them. Though he must have some inkling about what happened, Bruce doesn't ask about Rogers and Tony doesn't mention anything either. He thinks that should make him feel better, but it doesn't.

They sit for a while longer after polishing off their plates, sipping at their drinks. Bruce pays at his own insistence and Tony makes a note to buy more blueberries on the way back to the Tower, because blueberries have somehow become synonymous with Bruce, with gratitude, with acceptance.

"That was nice," Bruce says, stepping outside with the sunglasses back on his face. "We should do this again."

"Sure. I'll be glad to come back and watch Henry stare at you like you're—"

"You're right. Let's never do this again."

Tony laughs and almost misses the moment Bruce stumbles and jerks to a stop. He holds out an arm to steady the other man. "Something wrong?"

Bruce stares across the street, brows furrowed. "No, I just – I just thought I saw someone." He swallows and looks at Tony and then at the ground quickly. "I'm fine. It's fine. Let's go."

Tony doesn't follow immediately. He looks at the woman who seized Bruce's attention, a brunette with a willowy figure. It's not Betty Ross, but at this distance, there is enough of a resemblance to briefly trick the mind. Tony sighs, puts his hands into his pockets and carries on walking. He remembers someone saying Loki had called them all lost creatures and can't help but think that maybe Loki was onto something there.

+

"I ate strawberries today and thought of you," Tony says the moment Pepper picks up. Outside of business matters, he's been trying to give her space, texting her sporadically instead of calling all the time, saying small things like _why do women wear frighteningly high shoes, I fear for my life_ sometimes or _too hot, wear sunscreen, your skin is too sensitive_. She texts him back with the little smiley faces that she knows aggravate him. All it really does over the weeks is build up the need to hear her voice until, one night, he caves and calls her instead of sleeping.

"Did you do something you feel like you need to apologise for?" Pepper asks, no doubt with an eyebrow perfectly arched.

"That was one time, Pepper, one time. And at least I remembered that you're allergic to strawberries this time, which is why I ate all of them. You know, let you live vicariously through me."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Tony. Thank you. Is there any special reason why you're telling me this at one in the morning?"

Tony pulls away from where he's resting his forehead on the window and returns to the bed, falling face-first and sighing in his pillow. The blankets are still strewn across the floor after he had kicked them off in frustration at the heat. He turns again, onto his back, and gruffly says, "he thinks I'm a whore and doesn't want anything more to do with me."

Pepper takes a sharp breath but doesn't say anything. She has different kinds of silences (Tony has them all catalogued) and this is the contemplative, thinking-sad-thoughts-about-Tony kind. "Did he – did he say that?"

"Well, not in those words exactly. He said something more along the lines of me having a reputation, sleeping around, and not wanting to waste his time with me."

Tony listens to paper being shuffled around, a muffled thud that must be Pepper putting down a paperweight and a second later, she speaks. "I'll be honest. I didn't expect that."

"I'll let you in on a little secret: beneath the shiny star-spangled armour, there's a real guy. And he's a dick. Besides, all he needs to do is pick up a few magazines or check the internet and there it is. Tony Stark, Giant Alcoholic Slut in all his glory."

"Don't say that about yourself, Tony."

"Can you actually negate any of those things?"

"Of course I can. You're not a giant at all, I'm taller than you."

"Ouch. You strike right where it hurts, dontcha, Pep?"

Pepper doesn't laugh exactly, but she makes a reluctantly amused noise that Tony counts as a win nonetheless. "So, that was it? He just came in, told you he wasn't interested anymore, and then left? Wait, when was this?"

Tony counts back the days. "Two weeks ago, I think?"

"Two weeks ago? And you're only telling me now?" The last syllable goes up shrilly, twisting under surprise. There's that muffled thud again. Tony imagines the paperweight laying on the floor.

He winces and hurries to say, "I didn't want to bother you while you were busy CEO-ing. And Rhodey was around at the time, so it was fine."

"Tony, you know that you can still talk to me, don't you? Just because we're not together anymore doesn't mean –"

"Of course I know that," Tony interjects. "Why do you think I'm calling in the first place?"

"Alright," Pepper says, sounding slightly mollified. "Carry on, then."

"Well, I didn't stand there and take it. I gave as good as I got."

"That doesn't surprise me one bit." Now, she just sounds fond. "You didn't goad him, did you? I know you, Tony, when you don't want to deal with something, you goad the other person into getting even angrier and that way, you can draw attention away from yourself."

"I didn't goad him. I just didn't deny that I—" he huffs and forces the words out "—that I enjoyed, _enjoy_ having sex. He didn't know that you and I were together, but I told him we weren't anymore and, fine, maybe I asked if he was disappointed that I'd rather go and find someone than go to him."

"What else did you say? Tell me word for word," Pepper orders in her CEO voice.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're not on my side anymore?"

"I'm always on your side. That goes without saying. Now, tell me."

"He thinks that I don't want the Bond because I want to sleep around. I told him that that was exactly it."

"And was it a lie? I'm not saying that he's right and I definitely don't agree with the way he went about it, but I've seen all the speculation on the television and in the magazines, Tony, which means you must have too."

"I'm not going back to fucking everyone and anyone, Pepper," Tony snaps. He sits up, goes back to the window, and stares out at the buildings with blinking lights. It's remarkably quiet outside for a city that never sleeps. "I don't want to be trapped with one person, either. That's worse."

"Why didn't you just tell him that instead?"

"What does it matter? He would've left in the end anyway."

"You don't know that."

No, he doesn't, and it infuriates Tony.

He understands the laws of physics and the mathematical world, he understands and while he is at times outlandish in his ideas, he hardly ever falters or engages in a guessing game where he _could_ be wrong and _could_ be right. Real life isn't so clear cut. Even if he considers the factors and predicts the outcomes of each social interaction and watches the pieces come together flawlessly in his head, he cannot force people into place as easily and there lies his frustration.

"Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"You've gone quiet."

"Now there's something people never expect from me," Tony mutters with a sardonic chuckle. "Just thinking. I hate people. People are confusing. I know I'm not the easiest person in the world to deal with, but I'm not the only one."

"You're not going to hack into his computer and leave him dealing with porn adverts all the time, are you?"

"Would I do that? No, I wouldn't. I'd get JARVIS to do it for me." Pepper sighs. "Okay, you sound sadder than I do right now. Come on, Pep, spill. It's only fair if I'm sharing my woes, too."

"When you first hired me, it was just to manage your appointments and get the important documents signed and make you coffee. For a while, work was the only thing that connected us. But then I began caring about you as a friend, your wellbeing, your happiness became just as important as everything else."

Tony remembers saying _you're all I've got_ , remembers hearing Pepper say _you're all I've got, too, you know_. "And that's the same for me too. Has anything changed?"

"Of course not. It's just that I really thought this was going to be it for you. You were happy with me, I know you were, but sometimes I felt like you could have been even happier, like there was something bigger and better out there for you."

"Sorry to disappoint," Tony murmurs.

"No, no, God, no, you're not disappointing me, Tony. It's your life, I gave up running it the day I got promoted from being your assistant," she laughs, and he laughs quietly with her. "You're still going to have to talk to him, you know, if you're going to be an Avenger. I'd suggest you try to get some sort of working relationship going. Could you do that?"

Tony turns around and slides down the window. The glass is cool against his back. Pepper's fingers are always cool. Even in bed, she would leave her hands outside of the blankets out of habit and in the morning, if they had time, he would take them in his hands and warm them up for her. "You know I can't say no to you when you ask me like that," he says. Tony would give Pepper Potts the world for all she's done for him.

"I would never ask you to do something that I thought would hurt you."

He falters only a little when he asks, "because you love me?"

"Because I love you," she replies, steady like she has always been.

"I'll, okay, I'll try. Iron Man can get along with Captain America even if Tony Stark can't get along with Steve Rogers."

"Okay," Pepper says. "That's good enough for now, I think. I've got an early flight, so I need to be up in a few hours, Tony."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Seattle, right? Bring me back something."

"I don't think they'll have anything of interest for you."

"I'm sure you'll look hard in any case."

Pepper sighs in mock exasperation, says, "get some sleep, Tony," and hangs up. Tony drops his phone onto the ground next to him and groans into his hands.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon will always and forever be that Bruce is an amazing cook.

"Did you need something, Stark, or were you just checking up on us?" Natasha says without preamble when JARVIS lets the call through. "I won't bother with asking how you found us."

"Let's just say I like to know where all my ducklings are," Tony replies easily. He shifts the bookcase to the right, tilts his head to get a good look, and then pulls the bookcase back into its original position. Behind him is an assortment of books he has compiled with great care, the titles pulled from the five different languages Natasha is fluent in. The pile has gone from being stacked atop each other to forming something vaguely resembling a pagoda (the most important thing is that he _tried_ ), and now it's been rearranged into the structure of a house.

"I thought that was Cap's job. Are the two of you splitting shifts already? Should we be calling you mom and dad?"

"I just wanted to know what the hell Barton likes," he grumbles. "Hobbies, favourite colours, that kind of stuff. There's more to the guy besides being Legolas 2.0, right?"

Natasha makes an interested noise. "Why do you want to know exactly?"

"Surprise. Not the kind that goes boom unfortunately, but a surprise nonetheless."

Natasha makes the same noise again. Tony hears a door close softly before her voice comes through again. "He's fond of purple, if you haven't noticed, and he likes reading manga books and comics. Violent videogames, the ones where he can be a sharpshooter because he doesn't get enough of shooting at things from a distance in real life apparently. And, you better not make me regret telling you this, but," Natasha pauses, uncertain. In the middle of filling the bookcase up, Tony takes a pause of his own. "He has a soft spot for Disney movies."

He refrains from saying anything that could possibly get him maimed when Natasha and Clint return from Argentina. "Right. Purple, manga, comics, videogames, Disney. A man after my own heart, actually. Well, nearly anyway. I'm more of a red and gold kind of guy, obviously."

Wherever she is, the door opens again, Clint dropping _Nat_ when he calls out for her.

"Looks like I'll have to cut this short."

"Yeah, that's fine; off you go then, _Nat_."

"It's Natasha to you. You could try out some titles like Your Eminence, if you feel like it. I won't be complaining."

Tony snorts and amends to, "off you go then, Natasha."

"We'll you soon, Tony," she says, hanging up, and Tony's fairly certain that he wasn't imagining the smile he heard in her lilting voice.

He slots in the last few books, the final pieces to the puzzle of Natasha's suite, and takes several step backs to survey the whole picture with a satisfied grin. The colour scheme for her suite is white, silver, and metallic blue, and it's more patently minimalistic than any of the other suites will be. She doesn't strike him as a woman who expects much, but as a woman who knows how to make use of little, just as he knows how to build monuments out of scraps.

"Strike another one off the list, JARVIS," he says triumphantly as he walks back to the lift. "Time to celebrate. Bruce hasn't disappeared to that cafe to meet with his boytoy, has he?"

"Dr. Banner is still present and preparing dinner. It appears he is cooking enough for many. He requested to be informed when you finished working."

"Inform away. Home-cooked food. Turns out being on the run makes you quite the good cook. _Awesome_."

It is decidedly less awesome when Tony actually approaches the kitchen, coming to a gradual halt just to the side of the doorway because Bruce is talking and judging by the soft murmurs he can hear, it's not JARVIS he's talking to.

"I've been thinking about it actually," he hears Bruce say. "It's great here, of course, but I'd love to return to my work in India. Before it was just about staying hidden, keeping myself off the radar, but as it turns out, I was always on the radar, it's just that SHIELD didn't see fit to bother me until the thing with Loki. I can go back now without having to worry about any sort of trouble."

"And we'd have your back if there was, you know that, don't you?"

Rogers. _Rogers_ is inside.

For a moment Tony contemplates if he had simply imagined that day when Rogers appeared at the penthouse, crowned in sunlight and anger, if that was just a drunken hallucination. But, no, he remembers the disapproval on Rogers' face all too clearly, sharp as a vivisection.

"Sir," JARVIS says before Tony can turn back the way he came. "It has been approximately twenty five hours since your last adequate meal."

"JARVIS, you sneaky little fucker," Tony mutters.

Bruce pokes his head out first and then the rest of his body follows. "Hey, come and join us. I made too much and I don't want it to go to waste."

"Captain America has a metabolism that burns four times faster than the average person," Tony recites automatically. "He's more than capable of finishing off whatever you put down in front of him."

"We'd still like for you to stay," Rogers says, appearing next to Bruce, with his perfectly snug shirt and perfectly ironed trousers and perfectly combed hair.

Tony seeks out perfection all the time – his world demands it, he covets it in his machines but hates it in humans, for then it is just a bitter reminder that he is too far from it in himself. He feels bitter and sad and angry all at once. "I suppose I'm expected to do it now that you've spoken up."

"You're not expected to do anything you don't want to. It'd just be nice if you stayed."

"So reasonable, Rogers. It makes me sound petty. Is that your plan, now? Have you switched tactics?" Rogers watches him patiently. Tony grits his teeth. "Well, if that's what you want, then who am I to refuse two Doms?" He glares and pushes past them into the kitchen, relishing the scrape of the chair against the floor as he pulls it out. It's immature, but Tony is nothing if not a creature of impulse.

Bruce returns to the cooker, where he must have been standing before. Rogers takes a seat opposite Tony at the table. He doesn't tap his fingers or bounce one leg up and down or fidget at all, military training from decades ago still ingrained into his muscles (because it hasn't been decades for him, has it, it's only been months). It's not right, Tony thinks, it's not right at all that Rogers is so calm while Tony isn't.

"The pair of you are working together again, are you? I'm hurt, Bruce. I thought we had something special but now I see that you've been colluding with the enemy."

"Steve is not the enemy," Bruce says lightly, his fingers fluttering as they add in some seasoning to what he's cooking.

"Unless you're a Nazi or you don't know the words to the American national anthem," Rogers jokes and it's such an obvious attempt at easing the tension around them that Tony almost feels sorry for him.

Bruce laughs quietly, taking his glasses off and wiping them clean of cloudiness with the bottom of his shirt. "What do you think?" he asks, gesturing to the table.

"I think you've been busy," Tony replies. He looks at the various dishes set in a neat circle, one spot still left empty. If Tony knew more about Bruce's time in India, maybe he would have seen something significant in the arrangement.

"I've found that cooking is a great way to relax and I'm feeling a little nostalgic, I suppose."

"Yeah, I know how that feels," Rogers murmurs, more to himself than anything, and then his mouth tightens like he had unintentionally given voice to a secret and wants to retract his words. He looks quickly at Bruce. "Are you sure I can't do anything to help?"

"You're a guest, Steve. You're fine where you are."

Tony leans in and looks closely at the plate nearest to him. "What exactly is on the menu?"

"The one you're looking at is chicken dopiaza. Those three are lamb kebabs, onion bhajis, and Bombay potatoes. Over here is rice laced with lemon and a lamb curry with spinach. And this," Bruce stirs at the large wok Tony has never really seen before, beaming proudly, "is sweet and sour lentils."

"You know you're welcome to go back, if you want, or go anywhere else you'd like to go. I'll even help you. I don't want you to feel like you have to stay here just for me."

"I don't feel that way at all. I'm more than grateful that you've opened up this place to me. I have no plans to leave anytime soon." With a pointed look, Bruce adds, "not until I get to see my suite. I've told Steve all about them."

Rogers nods and smiles. (It's the third smile Tony has received from him so far, not that Tony is keeping track.) "It's a great idea and very thoughtful of you."

"It's practical, that's all," Tony says tersely. Anyone else and he would have been gushing about his plans at this point. "You don't need to come over if you don't want to. Wouldn't want you to waste anymore of your time here, after all."

"Alright, I deserve that," Rogers concedes, hands coming up in a show of surrender.

Bruce suddenly decides that he needs to grab something from his room and vanishes. Tony scoffs and stares at the wall behind Rogers resolutely.

Rogers coughs. "So. Uh."

"Don't bother," Tony says. To his own ears, he sounds tired. "I'm kinda getting sick of how we always end up arguing."

"Me, too," Rogers agrees grimly. "Do you think that this time, we can just talk?"

"I wouldn't get my hopes up."

Rogers shrugs, as if to say fair enough. He looks at Tony, waits for something.

"What?" Tony snaps eventually, crossing his arms over his chest. He can't take the itch of those quietly compelling eyes on him.

"Okay, then, I'll start, shall I?" Rogers says. Tony just raises an expectant eyebrow at him. "Okay. I think where I'm, no, where _we_ are going wrong is that we're jumping straight to thinking of this in the terms of a relationship. And clearly that's the part you're having difficulty with—"

"Are you saying you aren't? I'm practically a stranger. I've slept with a bunch of people I only knew for a night, but that's all. I never wanted a relationship with them."

"This isn't a one night stand," Rogers says, frowning slightly. "I thought I was going to settle down with my girl, I wanted to, but I don't know if it would've worked out back then. We would've tried, but I don't know if it would've been enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Peggy," Rogers says. He takes a moment before continuing. "She was a Domme. It wasn't as easy for two Doms to be together like it is now, even if they had feelings for each other. But that was before I went down in a plane." Rogers shrugs, every inch of his casualness forced. "I figure it'd be crazy, not to mention downright stupid, for me to not try with you, stranger or not. You're my Bonded. That makes you, ah, special."

Tony absolutely does not feel warmth slowly creeping over him at that. He clears his throat sharply. "So, what are you saying? You want to be friends?"

"I think it's the best thing to do in this situation."

"Seriously? _Friends_?"

Rogers sighs. "Not even that?"

"You said you didn't want to waste any time on me," Tony says again, almost petulantly.

"I know what I said. Believe me, I know what I said and I'm not proud of any of it. The last thing I ever want to be is a bully and, well, I'm not doing such a great job at avoiding it, am I?" He looks at Tony directly, because that's what men like Rogers who are so terribly earnest do. "I'm sorry. Can we start over? Just Steve and Tony. Just friends."

Bruce returns then, which is just as well because Tony doesn't have a reply for Rogers.

"What did you need to get?" Tony asks him and isn't surprised when Bruce waves the question off. Tony holds back another scoff and supposes he should be glad that these two aren't even trying to be secretive anymore. He takes the plate Bruce gives him and they shuffle the dishes around to accommodate everyone.

"Just how spicy is this going to be?" Rogers asks Bruce, appearing equal parts eager and anxious.

"Don't worry, you can handle it."

"That doesn't actually answer my question."

Bruce smiles mischievously. "I know."

It's difficult not to be at least a little amused by the light-hearted exchange. From their ease with each other, it's obvious that Rogers and Bruce have been spending a lot of time together. Tony wonders how that familiarity was fostered, if Rogers has shared stories with Bruce and if Bruce has taught Rogers something in return, if they talked about art and history and climate change on afternoons that Tony might never know about. He's reminded abruptly of Pepper and Rhodey and feels a sudden pang of yearning that he swallows down with a spoonful of lemon rice and chicken dopiaza.

"My mouth...isn't on fire," Tony says, promptly going for another spoonful. "Spicy, but not too much. Yum. Five stars. Ten stars. All the stars of the American flag, if the living embodiment of it sitting over there is willing to share with you."

"Yeah, this is really nice," Rogers says delightedly. Tony has to admit a tiny, mean part of him is disappointed that Rogers didn't take that as something to object to. He also has to admit that he's underestimated just how much Rogers could eat and how quickly, because half of his plate is already gone, his face taking on a roseate hue that looks soft to the touch.

"Thanks," Bruce says, digging into his own plateful of lentils with a laugh.

Tony rips a lamb kebab into several pieces, popping them one by one into his mouth and absentmindedly licking the juices off his fingers afterwards with a pleased hum. Bruce snickers. The sound is almost inaudible especially with his hand placed over his mouth, only he leans a little to the side, towards Tony, who just about catches it. He raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry and then, at Bruce's subtle gesture, looks across the table, where Rogers is pointedly not meeting his gaze. Tony isn't sure anymore if the pink of Rogers' cheeks is solely from the spicy food.

Conversation isn't stilted but it doesn't flow fluidly either. He is more open with Bruce, more tentative with Rogers, but they manage to muddle through dinner. Tony pretends not to notice Rogers discreetly pushing dishes his way, apparently of the mind that Tony needs to eat more, and Bruce struggles between looking impressed, frightened, and even envious at how Rogers steadily and singlehandedly finishes off half of the plates on the table.

"That was really nice," Rogers says again when they're all leaning back in their chairs, bellies wonderfully full and contentment rolling across them. "I don't mind washing the plates. When I feel like getting up, that is."

"Guest, Steve," Bruce reminds him.

"I haven't eaten like that in ages. I'm feeling a little sleepy already," Tony mumbles, head lolling to the side. Through half-lidded eyes, he's certain that he sees Rogers smiling at him.

Despite Bruce's best efforts, Rogers does end up doing the washing up, after all. The plates, cutlery, and glasses seem all the more delicate in his big hands. He handles them with great care and if Pepper had been here, Tony thinks she would have gleaned something from that.

"If you two are going to fall asleep on me," Rogers says after everything has been dried and put away, "then, I should probably get going." They merely look at him, still stuck lazily in their chairs, and he huffs out a laugh. "I see how it is."

Bruce sits up a little straighter. "No, no, stay. We should watch a film or something. Or the news. Or cartoons. Something, right, Tony?"

Rogers looks at Tony and Tony looks away. Rogers says, "maybe another time," and shrugs into his brown leather jacket. "Thank you for dinner, Bruce, and for listening me out, Tony." He offers them a friendly enough smile and goes out the door.

There's a moment of stillness, and then Tony is on his feet, Pepper's words coming to mind, bolstered by Bruce's imploring look. He almost runs into the hall, shouting, "hey, Cap, wait!"

Already at the lift, Rogers turns around.

"Look," Tony says heavily and then falls silent. "The thing is," he tries again, shifting from one foot to the other, but no words are forthcoming.

"This is really hard for you, isn't it?" Rogers says quietly, sadly.

One hand clenches into a fist at Tony's side. "I'm sorry."

Rogers nods and slaps the button for the lift. "Alright. I'll just go—"

"No! No, I mean, I'm sorry because I never apologised for...anything really, not for what I said on the Helicarrier or what I've said to you since. I'm a jackass, I know. That thing about you being a lab experiment, I didn't mean that." Regret sits as thick as a potent spice on his tongue. He sees Rogers' expression again, that terrible, hurt one that Tony had brought about with his unthinking words, and wants to never see it again. "I didn't mean that at all. It was just me lashing out. All of it was. I'm sorry."

Rogers breathes out, slow and deep, and it's embedded with such relief that it makes Tony feel infinitely worse. "We're apologising a lot to each other, aren't we?" Rogers says. "Okay. Yeah, I believe you. Apology accepted."

"Good. That's good," Tony says. He feels a little lighter, now. "But you also have to understand that while I'm sorry for all the crap I've said, I'm not apologising for not wanting this Bond. It's just something I'm not ready for."

Rogers nods. "I can live with that. I can," he pauses, swallows down whatever he wants to add and repeats, "I can," again.

Tony straightens his shoulders and offers his hand before he can hesitate anymore or run away. "I am willing to try the friends thing, though."

"Yeah?" Hope breaks out clearly on Rogers' face, like the peach flush across his cheeks during dinner.

"Yeah," Tony says, hoarse and a little shaky, because that hope is almost painful to look at. How can someone look at him like that, like he's gifting them with a treasure?

Rogers – no, Steve, now, _Steve_ – grins at him, open and sweet, and takes Tony's hand in a firm grasp. 


	9. Chapter 9

Tony would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised that Steve doesn't come over again after their truce. He prepares himself for a phone call, for another night where he'll walk in to find Steve talking quietly with Bruce, for _something_ , only Steve seems to think that the first step in being friends is to do nothing at all.

It leaves Tony relieved. It leaves him lost. It leaves him in anticipation, like he's standing on the edge of a precipice and looking into the face of something mysterious. He doesn't share any of this with Bruce, who, he knows, is meeting with Steve regularly. He doesn't inquire after Steve or mention him at all in conversations, ignoring all the curious looks that Bruce gives him. Steve is giving him space and Tony will gladly take it, no questions asked. 

He doesn't believe in coincidences but a coincidence is the only way to explain why, on the same Tuesday that he declares as Hotdog Tuesday, Tony finds Steve at the hotdog cart a short walk away from the Tower. He doesn't approach him, just stands at the corner of the street where he can watch and not be seen as he waits for Steve to finish. For once, he doesn't feel the need to avoid Steve, but he doesn't want to go closer straight away either.

Behind Steve is a small group of children, three boys and three girls, chattering excitedly in a fast-paced babble that can almost rival Tony on his most manic days and passing a red ball around to one another. Tony watches them and then watches Steve turn around, clutching six hotdogs to his chest in big hands. He bends down and lets the children take one each, smiling fondly at their overjoyed reactions, laughing when one of the boys hugs him around the leg. Tony hasn't heard Steve laugh without it being weighed down by something dark and bitter and even though he can only hear fractions of it now, the Bond lets him feel the happiness of Steve's laughter thrum across his skin, warmer than sunshine.

The children thank Steve, stumbling over their words in their eagerness, and Steve's reply is too soft to hear, but whatever it is, it makes the children break out in bright giggles before they run off, waving at him over their shoulders. Steve waves back and then he puts his hands into his pockets and walks away, carefree. A few moments later, Tony does the same, feeling like he's just watched something personal even though anyone nearby could've seen the tenderness on Steve's face.

"No hotdogs?" Bruce asks, puzzled, when Tony returns to the Tower empty-handed.

Tony shakes his head with a creaky smile. "How about Hotdog Tuesdays start from next week? We'll have some Thai instead."

The next time, it's less of a coincidence but Tony is just as surprised to see Steve. He almost skids to a stop right outside the Tower when he spots the familiar blond head talking to the doorman. Hurriedly, he flicks his wrist at the speakers, _Seven Nation Army_ dying abruptly, but Steve's attention has already been caught.

Tony nods in acknowledgement when Steve awkwardly waves a hand and drives on to his private garage to park his car. There is another entrance to the Tower, one for when Tony is too tired to deal with people and just wants to get inside without being seen. He forgoes it today, turning back around and returning to the front of the Tower.

"Hi," Steve says as Tony ambles up to the entrance. The doorman discreetly shuffles away to a suitable distance where he can keep an eye on the door and pretend he can't hear a word of their conversation at the same time. Just for that, Tony decides to give him a raise.

"Hey. What brings you here?"

"Just waiting. For Bruce. We're going out. To a museum." Steve smiles sheepishly at the awkward breaks in the middle.

"Oh, okay." Tony reaches out to push open the door, but it's pulled back to reveal Bruce, blinking in surprise at the two of them. "Hey, Brucie. Well, you kids have a good day, I guess."

"You, too," Steve says, the corner of his mouth curved upwards. Tony thinks back to Steve buying hotdogs for the children, the smile on his face as he watched them skip away in their delight, and can't help grinning a little. He walks into the lobby and glances over his shoulder once to catch Steve clapping a hand on Bruce's shoulder amiably before the pair slowly walk off.

That turns to be the second in a series of small encounters that all run along the same vein. Tony happens on Steve mainly by accident, sometimes in the streets or near that cafe where, Tony's been told, people sit down just to see Iron Man fly by, and they gawk at each other like two men in a standstill who have too much and too little to say to each other. They exchange greetings, sharing their plans for the day and if they're feeling particularly chatty, they'll add their opinion on something they saw or heard. This is how Tony finds out about Steve going to the recent baseball game and coming out of the stadium with the realisation that some things never change or that Beth, a waitress Steve has recently befriended, is also an art student who doesn't agree with Steve when he says that the eyes are the most fascinating part in a Modigliani portrait. After a tentative five minutes, they part ways, and don't see each other again until they do and so the cycle goes.

They're civil. Friendly. It works. He only slightly regrets relaying this to Pepper and Rhodey, when they both bombard him with texts replete with smiley faces. 

Bruce begins inviting Tony to come along with them in their little trips around the city, but Tony usually declines and they don't push. He has to work on finishing up Clint's suite anyway and begin on Thor's suite (the important question here, Tony reckons, is would a Norse God appreciate a home theatre?).

For some time, he and Steve are ripples in a pond coasting by each other, coming into contact only by chance and for brief moments before the wind blows them in different directions. For some time, Tony can pretend that this is enough.

+

When Tony sees Natasha and Clint again, he is in the Mark VII, doing barrel rolls in the air around the Tower. He keeps them waiting, twisting and looping giddily through clouds and the stretch of blue, putting on a show. It's the first time he's taken the suit out since the incident with Loki and he's missed it fiercely, this feeling of buoyancy, like he's full of light and air, a feather encased in metal. Being tethered to the ground after having the infinity of sky open to him brings about a fleeting sense of entrapment and he has to relearn that he can't stay afloat forever.

Tony sighs and descends, pulling off his helmet and placing it under an arm.

"Sorry for interrupting your fun," Natasha says in an entirely unapologetic tone. She's smiling, though, not just with her mouth but with her eyes too.

"You should be," Tony says, leaning in closer to get a good look at the small cut just above her right eyebrow. Her hair is a little longer, curlier, and he smells rain on both of them. With JARVIS's reminder of Argentina's rainy season sounding in his head, Tony doesn't quite know what to make of the fact that they came straight to the Tower from the airport. "The Black Widow got into a little scuffle, did she? What does the other guy look like? Or did you eat him?"

Clint gives him a lopsided smirk. "What do you think?"

"Lovely. Good to know. Nice to have you on our side. I thought the idea was to lay low for a while."

"It was. Trouble just follows us everywhere, I guess," Natasha retorts, sharing an amused look with Clint.

Tony laughs, because, yeah, he knows the feeling.

"Oh, hey, got something for you," Clint says, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a mini Dalek. He dangles it in front of Tony's face. "Nat said you're a Doctor Who fan."

"I don't like being handed things," Tony says. "But thanks anyway? Not to sound unappreciative but why exactly did you get me this?"

"It's an exchange." Clint points at the Tower. "We're going to eat your food and drink your beer and watch films on your TV and in return, you get that."

"I can't help but feel like I'm being cheated here."

Natasha nods and begins making her way inside, Clint a step behind, throwing the mini Dalek up into the air and catching it. "You are, but there's not a lot you can actually do about it."

"Security breach," Tony says automatically. He almost grins, only to remember the last time he said those words, who they had been about. Tony waits until it doesn't feel like his gut has turned into stone inside of him before walking back into the Tower.

In the time Tony takes to have the suit removed, Clint and Natasha commandeer the sofa in front of the television, seating the mini Dalek on an armrest. It must come with the job, the ability to make themselves at home anywhere. Clint sits slumped down further than Natasha so that he can rest his head on her shoulder and her hand settles on his knee, seemingly an unconscious action.

They busy themselves with dissecting a celebrity cooking show, Clint more interested in one contestant's purple hair while Natasha insists that she can handle a knife more effectively than anyone in the show. Their conversation veers into strange avenues (a souk in Marrakech, something about a fish market in Marseilles where Natasha had slapped someone with a wet fish) and Tony, although wildly curious, doesn't interrupt.

He picks up the mini Dalek, listens, and, because it's difficult to keep his gaze from straying towards them, he catches glimpses of the years of familiarity written into the looks they give each other, into their every gesture, into the way they're slotted close together, two pieces of the same puzzle. Envy seizes Tony, the force behind its green hands startling. He almost can't battle away the images that leap to the forefront of his mind – blue eyes, sun-kissed hair, a sweet grin – but Clint is looking at him now, saying something, and Tony doesn't know what it is.

"You okay?" Clint asks again, when Tony still hasn't spoken.

"Yeah, no, yeah, I'm fine. Just zoned out there for a moment. It happens."

"You dropped the Dalek."

Tony looks down. The toy is by his foot, collapsed on its side. He picks it up and puts it back on the armrest again. "Huh. So I did. You can hardly blame me, not when I'm hearing about Natasha kicking ass armed with only a fish."

Clint looks at him, evaluating. Tony thinks he should be used to those sorts of looks by now, considering how often people dissect him with their eyes. "Fair enough. Nice shirt you got there."

"Thanks, Pepper got it for me from Seattle. I thought we were going to watch a film?" Tony asks, dropping into the space next to Natasha.

"Nothing good on," Clint says dully, flicking through the channels again.

"Hey, was that Mulan? Did I see Mulan?" Tony asks, recalling what Natasha had told him about Clint's secret fondness for Disney movies. "That was Mulan, right? Give it back, Barton. We're watching Mulan in honour of our fierce lady warrior here."

Natasha makes a pleased noise and her fingers move slightly, like she's considering even patting his head.

"You're a bit old for Disney films, aren't you?" Clint says with fake reluctance, changing it back.

Tony kills the laughter bubbling in his throat with a cough and says, "Disney is timeless. As is pizza. Any preferences?"

"We're fine with anything except for Hawaiian," Natasha says.

"People after my own heart. You got that, JARVIS? Four pizzas, extra large, my usual. Cheese in the crust, okay, _cheese in the crust._ I'll supply the drinks."

"We only drink the finest."

"Clint, I'm offended that you think I have anything _but_ the finest. I'm even going to be nice enough to mix you some drinks that will turn your brain into liquid." Tony heads towards the bar and gleefully sets out to do just that, returning with three glasses filled to the brim with a pale green liquid.

Natasha takes hers carefully and examines it. "It looks like swamp water," she says even as she takes, first, a delicate sip and then a much larger mouthful, muttering something in Russian that sounds like approval. "Strong. Very strong."

Clint scrunches his face after throwing back half of the glass. "Jesus, Tony, what _is_ this? I think you've killed my liver."

"Drink, drink," Tony encourages, his drink almost sloshing over the rim and onto his hand. "JARVIS, has Bruce come back yet?"

"He has not, sir."

"Damn. We'll just save him some pizza and I guess I can tell him about my new sugar daddy status later."

"I've always wanted a sugar daddy," Clint says, sounding entirely sincere.

"I've always wanted to have a kept man," Tony replies just as sincerely.

"And I would keep the both of you," Natasha says, ignoring Tony's protest when she snatches away his mostly full drink and finishes it herself.

Clint laughs, pointing out that, "I'm sure Cap would have a slight problem with that," and the grin he flashes at Tony lasts for mere seconds, quickly vanishing into a thin line as he snaps his mouth shut. His eyes, darting straight away towards Natasha, are suddenly apologetic. Natasha simply puts her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb stroking the skin above the collar of Clint's t-shirt. If Tony hadn't already guessed by now that their relationship goes beyond that of colleagues, this would've told him.  

"It's fine," Tony says, more harshly than he intended to. He eyes the glass Natasha took from him longingly. "You don't have to tiptoe around me. Cap and me...we're friends now. Sort of, anyway."

Natasha shoots him a sideways glance. "That sounded like it was painful to say."

"I'm still getting used to it," he replies honestly. "I don't mind it as much as I thought I would."

"That's good," she says and turns her head to face him fully, as if that would impress upon him how much she means it.

"Out of interest, was it you or Bruce who gave him my number?"

"Did he call?" Natasha asks, which is answer enough really.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Tony says. He retrieves the empty glasses and refills them with the same green concoction again, taking significantly longer to prepare it this time, the clinking of bottles louder. He feels the subtle press of their eyes on him and disregards it like sweeping away unwanted touches. On the screen, Mushu is saying to Mulan _you know, we have to work on your people skills_.

It's Clint who breaks the silence as he readily accepts his drink. "So, where's Banner got to? Does he have a juicy secret?"

Tony curls his mouth into a wicked smirk. "Dr. Banner is definitely _attending_ to someone, if you know what I mean."

"Seriously?"

"No, but you're thinking about it now, aren't you?"

"Asshole," Clint grumbles half-heartedly and he grins again, one that doesn't disappear as swiftly as its predecessor.

Two hours later, Bruce finally returns and Tony almost doesn't notice, too busy crowing his victory over Clint. They've given up on films and have turned to Mario Kart Wii, Tony currently in the lead, Clint in second place, and Natasha in third. While Tony isn't nearly as tipsy as he could have been, Natasha's cheeks are flushed now and Clint is mildly slurring the weak insults he throws at Tony.

"Bruce!" Tony exclaims without looking away from the screen. "How was your date? Did you use protection? Are you feeling hungry? Maybe some pizza?"

Bruce takes one look at the pizza boxes, at Clint and Tony clinging on the Wii Remotes like their lives depended on it, and at Natasha's expectant expression. He sighs resignedly, sitting down cross-legged on the floor next to Tony's leg. "Don't mind if I do. Wait. Is that a mini Dalek?"

"The Twin Terrors got it for me. They thought they could make me do their bidding by buying me something. They, unfortunately, thought right."

On cue, Natasha and Clint smile widely at Bruce, even if Clint looks a bit dazed.

"Hello, Natasha, Clint. It's nice to see you again. Are you hanging around for long?"

"Dunno," Clint says and that's as far as that line of conversation goes because Tony is winning again and Natasha grabs the Wii Remote from Clint, apparently deeming intervention necessary.

Bruce slowly chews at the cold slice in his hand. "Steve says hi, by the way." Tony grunts in response and tries to stop his Luigi from veering off track. "Did the meeting with Jane go well?"

"Yeah, she told me what I needed to know. The woman's slightly nuts, chasing dangerous shit in a truck instead of running away from it, but you gotta love that about her."

"Jane? As in Foster? Thor's girl?" Clint asks.

"The one and only."

Natasha rams her Koopa Troopa into Luigi and asks, "did it have anything to do with your surprise?"

The knowing smile on her face causes Tony to groan. "You already know what the surprise is, don't you? I'm not even going to ask how, because I sure as hell didn't tell you."

"I know everything," Natasha says simply and Tony very much believes her.

"Also, the good doctor over there is very forthcoming," Clint says, making an attempt at patting Bruce on the head. He only manages to jostle Natasha and land a floppy hand on Tony's knee before giving up.

"Is there anyone who doesn't know?" Tony asks Bruce.

"Thor?" Bruce suggests, abashed. "Kind of hard to reach a man who's not on the planet."

"Hmm," Tony says, unimpressed, turning his attention back to the game. Natasha must have been intentionally losing before because she soundly beats him in the next few races, even with an arm around Clint, who is staring mindlessly at the screen, his face softened by drunkenness.

"It feels weird," Clint suddenly blurts out, sitting up and fixing wide eyes on Tony.

"Don't you dare puke on my carpet," Tony warns immediately.

"No, I meant, well, alright, so I feel a little pukey, is that a word? We'll make it a word. Don't look at me like that, Tony, you do it all the time in your press conferences. But I was talking more about how we need Cap and Thor here. Feels weird without them."

"It does," Bruce agrees quietly, wiping his fingers on a tissue.

"Soon," Natasha says. It sounds like a question.

Tony answers it with a brusque nod and that's all they say on the matter.

Later on, when Bruce and Clint are dozing lightly, Tony migrating to the floor to let Bruce sleep on the couch, Tony carefully dips his fingers into Bruce's pocket and pulls out the phone inside.

 _Hi back,_ he texts to Steve. _You should have come over with Bruce_. _Clint misses you._

Natasha hasn't moved an inch, the picture of serenity as she watches reruns of that cooking show again, but he looks at her face as he puts the phone back and there's a smile on it, small, proud, reassuring. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There actually is a book called _The Loving Dominant_ though I've not actually read it and the card mentioned in this chapter is something I found in a bookshop and thought immediately of Steve and Peggy. I just had to put it in.

The cafe is just as quiet as it was when Tony last came by. Henry is at the counter, turning a pencil around and around in one hand, his face and the frown on it turned towards a crossword puzzle. He really is very young-looking, his smiles still touched with naivety. Tony doesn't remember ever looking that way, having grown up too fast.

"Hey, kid," he says, stepping up to the counter. He doesn't get the same grin that Bruce received but Henry is still warm and friendly, perhaps a little shy around Tony Stark, which would explain the quick glances and fidgeting. "Can I get the pie of the day to go?"

Henry hops down from the stool he's sitting on and disappears into the back. "Sure, Mr. Stark."

Tony peers over the top of his sunglasses and looks down at the crossword that Henry has almost finished. "Schadenfreude," he says after a moment.

"Did you say something, Mr. Stark?" Henry calls out, his head coming back out.

"Twelve, down, the German word you're looking for is schadenfreude."

"Oh." Henry disappears again. "How do you spell that?" he calls out.

Tony picks up the abandoned pencil and scribbles the letters in, his own hurried scrawl indistinct from Henry's messy handwriting. "I wrote it in for you."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark!"

"Call me Tony, makes me feel a little less old." Not that it really helps, considering how young Henry looks.

It's not a long wait for Henry to return with the pie and an amiable assurance that Tony isn't old on his lips. When he tentatively inquires about Bruce, Tony refrains from saying what he wants to say (sorry, kid, you're better off giving up, Bruce won't ever look at you the way you want, he'll always be seeing somebody else) and sighs. "He's a little frustrated these days. Work stuff. I thought some pie would cheer him up a little."

"That sounds bad," Henry says sympathetically, taking the dollar bills Tony puts on the counter. "I hope it passes. Tell him I said hi."

"Sure, I'll pass on the message. Keep the change," Tony grins, walking out the door, the bag swinging from one hand.

His car is parked right outside the cafe, two long strides away that, aside from an aborted movement, Tony doesn't end up making. Instead, he wonders if he'll ever stop being surprised every time he sees Steve.

Someone has managed to get Steve out of plaid shirts and ironed trousers and into a plain white shirt and jeans that hug attractively to his long legs. While this is progress, in the privacy of his own mind, Tony can admit that there had also been something nice in the quaintness of Steve's old-fashioned getup.

Steve reaches the door of the bookshop across the street, comes to a halt and, finally sensing eyes on him, looks over his shoulder. Tony wrenches the door of his car open but he is neither quick nor quiet enough.

"Tony?" Steve calls out.

Tony throws the bag with the pie in the passenger seat. "Uh, yeah, Tony," he says. It occurs to him a second later that sounding unsure of his own name doesn't count as a smooth reply. He tries rectifying this by carrying on with, "I mean, hi. Cap. Steve. Hi." It helps none.

"Hi," Steve says back, walking over, both hands jammed into his pockets.

They stare at each other for several long moments. Tony tries not to fidget. Steve presses his lips together into a tight, thin line.

"I didn't think I'd bump into you here," Steve says eventually.

"Your lucky day, I guess. I'm only here to pick up some pie for Bruce." Tony gestures at the cafe behind him, hoping that Henry isn't watching and realising that Tony Stark isn't always as suave as he seems. "He loves that place, one of the waiters there has a thing for him."

"Yeah, I know," Steve replies, looking over Tony's shoulder and pulling one hand out to wave. "Henry's quite obvious with his crush and Bruce brushes it off, but I think he secretly likes it."

"You...know Henry," Tony says haltingly. "How long have you been coming down here exactly?"

"For a while now. Bruce actually showed me that bookshop over there and sometimes we go to the cafe together."

"Wait, Bruce showed you? Oh. _Oh_. I see." It makes sense now, all those instances where Bruce had stared out of the window of the cafe, always towards the bookshop, his face expectant and like he knew something Tony didn't. Let it never be said that Bruce Banner cannot be devious when he wants to be. "It's nothing," Tony says, waving off Steve's confusion. "Don't worry about it."

Steve nods and says nothing. They lapse into strained silence again.

Tony racks his brain for something else to talk about. He's usually good at snatching onto even the most irrelevant thing and spinning a whole tirade around it. Then again, _usually_ hasn't involved Steve Rogers before. Maybe he should just end the conversation here and call it a decent enough attempt at this friends thing.

"What kind of books do you read?" Steve asks abruptly.

Tony blinks. "Uh. Anything interesting? Why?"

"Just trying out new books, that's all. Things I wouldn't read normally. You seem like you'd read, uh," Steve flails a hand as he tries to think of the word.

"Weird stuff?" Tony supplies.

" _Different_ stuff," Steve stresses.

"I like to dabble in all genres, really. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, dabbler. Okay, no, that doesn't have the same ring to it. Sounded better in my head." He squints at Steve. "I bet you devour Jane Austen books, don't you?"

"What's wrong with Jane Austen?" Steve asks, a little affronted. "Natasha's also got a grudge against her." Tony just looks at him sadly. "If my taste in books is so bad, why don't you help me pick out some good novels?"

"Maybe I should," Tony says.

"Maybe you should."

"Five minutes spent enlightening you is a five minutes well spent. There's a Tibetan saying somewhere in there, I'm pretty sure."

"Okay then," Steve says, smiling like he's won something, and Tony thinks that he should be wary about what that means but he isn't. Instead, he's rendered a little helpless at the smile and has little choice but to follow Steve into the bookshop.

It's a fairly large building but inside, it somehow seems small and cramped, the cluttered shelves teeming with books that have both the sweet smell of aged paper and the crispness of new editions, the kind of haphazard organisation that Tony can appreciate. Over here, too, the middle-aged woman at the counter knows Steve by name and the look she directs towards him is akin to the gentle, delighted expression of a mother watching a cherished son. Tony doesn't want to stand around awkwardly while they talk so he tries to slink away unnoticed, but Steve turns to him just as he takes the first step.

"This is Tony," Steve says. "Tony, this is Marie."

"It's nice to meet you," Marie says politely enough. Her eyes are hard, however, scrutinising.

Tony gets the feeling that he has to be careful here, make somewhat of a good impression. He slides his sunglasses up into his hair and holds out a hand amicably. "Lovely to meet you too, Marie. Steve here has been keeping you all to himself. I can see why now."

"Oh, goodness," Marie laughs, softening a little. "I'm used to flatterers like you. It won't work with me, I'm afraid."

"She's married," Steve tells him. "You'll have better luck elsewhere."

"Well, a man's gotta try, hasn't he?" Tony grins toothily.

Steve shakes his head, smiles in a _what can you do_ way at Marie, and walks off towards the bookcases. Tony lingers by the counter to grab a handful of sweets from the bowl next to Marie before joining Steve.

"I read quite fast now because of the Serum, so I go through a lot of books really quickly and come by here a lot," Steve explains, running a reverent hand over battered and perfectly straight spines alike.

It's easily been a few years since Tony last picked up a novel (the harlequin romance books Pepper left laying around don't count, anything seems like a good idea when he's drunk or bored or both). Watching Steve casts his mind back to the library at the Stark family mansion, carefully maintained by their butler until his death and where Tony had spent many nights picking out books to read instead of sleeping until Jarvis finally got him into bed. Even back then, regular sleeping schedules and Tony Stark had parted ways.

"I haven't read this one yet. Here, what do you think?" Steve asks, holding out a novel.

"I don't like being handed things," Tony says quickly. "I don't mean that in a bad way, like in an I'm-being-mean-to-you kind of way. It's just a thing I have, that's all." He glances down at the book and groans. " _Tender Is the Night_? That's horrible and depressing and it made me want to drink even more, Cap. Put it down, there's – oh, look, there's Wells!"

Steve seems torn between being alarmed and amused as he slots the book back into its place. Tony leaves him to wander across the shop and pull out a copy of _The Time Machine_ , granting _The War of the Worlds_ only a brief glance. One alien invasion is quite enough, he thinks, and he knows Steve will agree with him.

Marie clears a table for them to stack their books on, five minutes turning into an hour without Tony's knowledge as he gathers together books he deems necessary reading, scrutinises Steve's choices ("okay, fine, I'll give you Hemingway but, here, you need some Huxley to scare you a little", "tell me the truth, are you choosing _The Good Soldier_ just because of its title?"), and heatedly justifies his predilection for badly written thriller books. Steve doesn't even have to say anything; the raised eyebrow is mocking enough.

"So I like crappy thrillers. What's wrong with that? You like Austen, so we're even now," Tony says with a glower, slapping _The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao_ onto the top of the stack.

"You're having too much fun mocking me," Steve says.

"Of course I'm having fun," Tony says, hastily adding, "mocking you, I mean."

When they gravitate towards non-fiction, Steve flips through books on history and Tony, unsurprisingly, focuses on the science section first.

There's a moment where he looks at all the scientific studies on Dominants and submissives and wonders which of these SHIELD had thrown at Steve to help him acclimatize to changes in the twenty first century. Marie is so quiet that he doesn't notice her by his shoulder until he turns and almost accidentally knocks into her.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" Marie asks. She has a box in her arms.

Tony forgets the apology that was on his tongue. "No, not really." Marie cocks her head as if that'll convince him to reconsider his answer. "No, really, I'm not looking for anything."

Marie says, "alright, dear," and sets down the box in front of a bookcase. Out of curiosity, Tony reaches down and takes out one of the books in the box.

From the cover, a woman with dark eyes, dark lips, and a head of tight curls smiles back at him, a little flirtatious, but her little smile isn't for Tony or for anyone who picks up this book and gazes at this picture. It's for the man next to her, a tall, skinny fellow with a broad grin that takes up the lower half of his face. Tony knows who they are; he can't name a person who _doesn't_ know who Jason and Selene Waldburg are. They were the Bonded pair from the nineteen thirties who had fought stereotypes to be together, Selene a rich, famous actress who was also a Domme in a period where only men were accepted as the ones in control and Jason a farmer who had met her by accident.

"Have you read it before? It's been around for fifty years now, I think, and it's still one of the most popular autobiographies. I have to constantly buy some more."

"No," he replies, putting the book back. "I know their story, I just never thought much of it."

"That doesn't surprise me at all. You don't strike me as someone who thinks much of Bonds."

Tony looks behind him. Steve is by the entrance, slowly rotating the cards stand beside the door, looking at each card intently. "Why? Because I'm known for sleeping around? Don't worry, I'm not offended. It's, well, it's a little more complicated than just saying I don't think much of Bonds."

"I wonder, Mr. Stark, if you'd let a Bond dictate who you submitted to."

"I would have once, maybe," he says, barely stifling his snort at one book on the shelf entitled _The Loving Dominant_.

"You don't approve of the title?" Marie asks.

Tony shrugs, saying, "I'm not sure if it's entirely accurate."

"What's not entirely accurate?" Steve asks, suddenly appearing behind Tony, who tries not to look as startled as he feels.

"I think Mr. Stark here doesn't believe that there's such a thing as a loving Dom," Marie says.

"I have no idea why you would think that," Tony says smoothly, pasting on a fake grin that feels like it'll fall off its hinges easily. Marie gives him one final glance and then picks up her empty box and returns to the counter. "What have you got there?" he asks Steve without acknowledging how closely Steve is examining him.

The card in Steve's hand is plain and simple, just a turquoise background with words printed in black that say _we're all fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance_. It's more the way Steve looks at it – like the words mean something else, something more than just printed ink on card – that compels Tony to ask, "are you going to buy that?"

"I think so," Steve says.

"Big fan of dancing?

"No, well, kind of. I never got the chance to dance, really."

"Not ever?"

"I was waiting for the right partner."

"You found her, didn't you," Tony says.

"I found her." Steve laughs humourlessly. "We even decided on a date, but it was too late. We never got the chance to have our dance." His thin half-smile is an awful thing to look at. The frown he gives Tony is almost a relief. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Why should anything be wrong?" Tony says, moving to swipe up a book he had set aside before. "This is my last choice."

" _The Remains of the Day,_ " Steve reads out.

"When I was younger, we used to have an English butler called Jarvis. That's who I named my AI after. Jarvis gave me this book once, as a joke, you know, a book from a butler about the life of a butler. I don't think he expected for me to like it so much, but I did, I've always liked everything he gave me. This book just reminds me of him." Tony pauses, grimacing. "And I don't know why I told you any of that, you didn't even ask." It felt right, though, felt like what he should be saying. Tony puts it down to simply exchanging. Steve had shared an anecdote and he responded in kind.

"I don't mind," Steve says quietly. "I like getting to know you better. All of you."

Tony holds onto the novel in his hand tightly. He coughs and says, "maybe we should get going now before we buy out the whole bookshop?"

Steve looks over Tony's shoulder at their collection. "That's a lot of books."

"Well, you _did_ say that you read fast."

They decide on paying half each for the books and Tony nods once at Marie in goodbye, letting Steve do all the talking as he leaves the shop. He puts his sunglasses on and leans against his car, the heated surface burning softly into the back of his thighs.

"Marie apologised and said that she didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Steve says when he joins him outside. "What's that all about?"

"Forget about it." He changes the subject before Steve can respond. "Why did you walk here from Brooklyn if you have a motorcycle?"

"I like walking."

"The sun is on a mission to fry the shit out of everyone and you willingly walk in it?"

"I don't mind the heat, not anymore," Steve says, his tone calm but flat. It keeps Tony's mouth sealed, while his thoughts flutter as they wonder if Steve still carries the cold from the ice with him like Tony carries the feel of Obie's hands on his skin.

Tony drums his fingers against the car door contemplatively. "I could give you a ride back, if you want."

"I think I'll walk it back. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Fine by me. I think the pie likes sitting at the front anyway and I'll let everyone know that I tried to stop Captain America from collapsing from the heat."

"That's very nice of you," Steve says dryly. He rocks the big bag of books by his side forwards and backwards. "Thank you for this."

"You're welcome. It wasn't bad. We didn't have any arguments, except for that one over who should pay and that other one over my taste in thrillers, which, just so you know, I will always stand by, and also that moment where we—"

"It wasn't bad," Steve affirms and he's smiling one of those smiles that make Tony wonder how people can suffuse so much joy into the small curve of the mouth. "It wasn't bad at all."

This time, when they fall quiet, it isn't the awkward silence from before.

"I'll see you around, then," Tony says.

"You will," Steve says pleasantly and even long after he has walked off, disappearing down streets paved with sunlight, Tony is still left staring.

He pulls out his phone and opens the door of his car, slipping inside. "Bruce Banner," Tony says once Bruce picks up, "you could give SHIELD a run for their money when it comes to sneakiness."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce retorts innocently.

"Oh, please. You took me to that cafe on purpose, didn't you."

"Why? Did you see anything interesting?"

Bruce is smirking right now, Tony is sure of it. "As a matter of fact, I did. It was a lovely leaflet, I thought, promoted retail therapy pretty nicely. Unless you're talking about something else here?"

"You've been gone for two hours now. Have you been with Steve all this time?"

"You're turning into a gossip whore, Brucie. This is not an attractive look for you," Tony says.

"At least tell me that neither of you stormed out."

"Neither of us stormed out. Although I do have to point out that I do not storm out, I _saunter_. You'll find that Time Magazine will back me on this one."

"This is good," Bruce says warmly. "This is a step forward."

"I'm beginning to think that you're enjoying this far too much and that this may possibly be some sort of experiment on your end."

"That reminds me. I need to record the results. Would you agree that Subject A is showing signs of decreased hostility towards Subject—"

"Hanging up now, hanging up. And I'm eating your pie, the pie that I very kindly decided to buy for you since you were in a mood. See if I don't." Tony drops the phone into the passenger seat and starts the car, gunning the engine. Steve's suite is the last one left and it's about time he begins working on it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two paintings mentioned in this chapter: [Sunset over NYC](http://fineartamerica.com/featured/sunrise-over-nyc-paul-sachtleben.html) and [Brooklyn Bridge Watercolour](http://www.artistrising.com/products/576581/the-brooklyn-bridge.htm).

The first message comes not too long after the meeting in front of the bookshop, a surprise but not an unpleasant one.

 _Are all English butlers so terrifyingly efficient?_ Steve's text says. Tony reads the words blearily at first, yawning behind one hand, and then reads them again. It's eleven in the morning but he's been working throughout the night, redesigning gym equipment to withstand the strength of a super soldier.

 _Jarvis was_ , he texts back. His father might have been the owner of the mansion, but it was Jarvis who maintained the order within it. The trick, Tony has learned, is not necessarily to rely solely on your own genius but to surround yourself with efficient people who could take care of everything else while you obsessed and created and sought after answers. _Maybe that's why he liked Stevens. Have you finished reading all of it?_

He doesn't fall asleep exactly, but teeters on the blurry line between consciousness and slumber, dozing off for brief moments at a time before waking for no reason at all. The phone vibrates in his hand. _I don't know what to think of Stevens_. _He's loyal to a fault, but he's loyal to a Nazi-sympathiser which isn't getting him any points with me. I'm almost finished._

Tony buries half of his face into the pillow and drifts back into oblivion. When he resurfaces, it's early afternoon and the last text to come in appeared an hour ago. It reads, _you didn't warn me that it'd be so sad._

 _Oh, God, don't tell me I made Captain America cry,_ Tony sends back. He's just woken up, so he's allowed to muse absentmindedly over strange things like how Steve types, if he pecks out a reply with two thumbs or with only a forefinger.

The reply comes exactly five minutes later. _I'm not God, but take it from me anyway that you didn't make Captain America cry. It's still sad. Stevens could have been with her. He should've taken the chance._

 _Speaking from experience, Cap?_ Tony types out instantly and then hesitates, because Steve is, isn't he? There could have been a time where Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter ended up together. He deletes it and types _yeah, he could have, but things don't always work out, right? Shit happens. Isn't that just something we have to learn?_

Steve takes longer than five minutes this time round. Tony stares at his phone, curious and quick to open the reply as soon as it appears. _Sometimes, it's not that things don't work out. Sometimes, people expect things not to work out and don't do anything to change that, so is it any surprise when they're proven right?_

Tony spends another hour in bed, tangling himself in his blankets and trying to think of a response. Eventually, he settles on a curt _trying to make a point there, Rogers?_

 _I thought we were done with using last names,_ Steve writes back. _And it's less of a point and more of, to borrow your words, something we have to learn, too._

Tony snorts. Fine, he'll give Steve that one.

He doesn't send out a reply, turning his attention to getting something to eat. Bruce joins him halfway through and they decidedly talk about things that don't include the amount of attention Tony is paying towards his phone. When Bruce leaves for one lab experiment or another, Tony has to stamp down on the urge to follow him and check if Bruce is pulling out his own phone, updating the rest of the team on their favourite show which just happens to be called Tony's Life.

He returns to Steve's suite after several sandwiches, hauling the gym equipment he had worked on the night before into the training centre. Hours later, Tony flops onto the floor in an accurate imitation of a starfish claiming territory for itself and for some inexplicable reason, JARVIS must have taken this as a sign to inform Bruce that Tony is apparently dying because not too long after, Bruce appears, looking harried and concerned.

"Jesus, Tony, why didn't you get people to help you? It's not like it'd be out of character for you to abduct a few employees and force them into doing manual labour."

"Just because I occasionally tell them to call me their overlord doesn't mean I actually _am_. I'm not that deluded. Yet."

Bruce sighs. "You could've asked me. I could've, I don't know, gotten the Other Guy to help you out."

Tony stands up, exhaustion suddenly forgotten. " _Really, now?_ Lucky for me there are still a few more things left to bring in. Come on, big guy, let's go, turn into the not so jolly green giant, chop, chop. And then fajitas afterwards, how's that sound?"

There are no more texts from Steve that night or for the next few days, so Tony shrugs it off as Steve feeling particularly text-y and forgets about it. He had always planned on maintaining distance between them, building just enough of a polite relationship that they were able to work together and sit in each other's presence without anyone getting strangled.

While it's now Pepper who has to deal with numerous board meetings, Tony hasn't managed to escape meetings completely as head of the R&D department. He'll sit there, listen with all the wandering attention of a fidgety child, make snap decisions based on what little he heard, and then disappear like a flighty bird, always on the move, always having something else to do.

Currently, he's staring at the surface of the table he's sitting at, finding its gloss far more interesting than the bickering over the budget that's going on in front of him. Tony almost openly breathes out a sigh of relief when his phone suddenly vibrates.

It's Steve and Tony barely pauses in checking the message, a short, simple _Busy?_

Discreetly, Tony sends, _In a meeting, dying of boredom. So, no, not busy actually. I'll take another alien invasion right about now._

 _Sorry, I think this planet has filled its quota for alien invasions for the next century or so,_  Steve writes in one text, and then quickly after that, sends another one in. _I_ _saw Natasha today. We had lunch together. Did you know that she once went in undercover as a ballerina?_

Tony didn't, but he's not surprised. _She's spilling super secret information to you, Cap? I think you've become her favourite. Hey, you should ask her for that dance you missed out on. Who better than an ex-ballerina, right?_

Steve's reply is lightning fast. _No, I don't think that's a good idea._

Tony pauses at that, purses his lips in thought. He answers with, _Barton wouldn't bite your ass off if you did. He's a laidback guy._

_That's not it. You need the right partner, Tony._

"Huh," Tony says. He should've remembered that.

"Sir?"

He looks up to find everyone looking at him expectantly. There is a question to be answered here and it's to be answered by him, but damn if Tony knows what it is. "Well," he begins in his best I-have-thought-long-and-hard-and-this-is-my-final-decision voice, pocketing his phone. "I like Hamilton's – it is Hamilton, isn't it? – yeah, her idea. Let's go with that one."

"Really?" Hamilton exclaims, eyes bright.

"Sure. Best one I've heard all day." He dimly recalls liking the look of her designs, anyway. Tony glances at the unsure faces around the table and restrains a sigh. "Don't worry about the budget. It's fine, we're fine. Trust me. I'm your boss, well, ex-boss who is still your boss in the head of R&D kinda way and I'm a genius and I know these things. Come on, Hamilton, back me up here."

"It _is_ my design, sir, I think I'm a little biased."

"There'd be something wrong with you if you weren't," Tony says. "New Starktech is going to shit on everything else on the market right now. Let's make it happen, people." Grinning broadly at everyone, he glides over to the door and makes his exit to a chorus of _yes, sir_ that rarely fails to make him feel proud.

In his years as the CEO of Stark Industries, he's had his fair share of troubles. If it wasn't the media raving on about Tony's eccentricities and his scandals, then it was arguing with the more traditional Doms on the board about being led by a sub. Tony being Tony, he pushed himself through with Obie at his side and then Pepper, buoyed by his confidence, his intellect, his wealth.

It's been over forty years since subs were allowed to hold positions of power and leadership and the world, as it always does, slowly maybe but inevitably, adapted. As subs learned to say no in the boardroom and be heard, Doms learned to acquiesce and be content. Initially, Tony had taken that as a sign – perhaps orientation wasn't a fixed thing, perhaps through observation and practice, a sub could dominate. But then it became increasingly evident that his own instincts as a submissive would never go away; they were as much a part of him as the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins. Even if he could learn to be a Dom, he would never truly _be_ one. Staying alone, it had seemed, was the best option for him.

When he's back out in the sun, Tony gets into his car and texts _FREEDOM_ to Steve, taking a moment to appreciate the hilarity in saying that to Captain America.

+

It's the finishing touches to Steve's suite that end up stumping Tony. The bare, egg-white walls of his room are in need of colour, of paintings or prints or portraits, but Tony doesn't know the first thing about art unless it's a drawing of Iron Man (and even then, Pepper insists, Tony still doesn't know anything about art).

"This better be important," Pepper says when Tony calls. "I have a meeting in ten minutes."

"Of course it is. Would I ever bother you with matters that aren't of the utmost importance?" Tony says, spinning around in the swivel chair he brought into Steve's room for the sole purpose of wheeling himself around. "I need help choosing artwork to decorate Steve's room with."

"Oh?" Pepper says, suddenly far more interested. "You're willingly going to spend time looking at art for him? You don't even do that for me."

"Lies. I've always gone to every arty thing you've dragged me to."

"When was the last one we went to?"

"Uh," Tony says.

"I thought so," Pepper says.

"Hey," he objects, "I'm working through my issues. Be proud of me." His phone chimes and he pulls it back from his ear to take a look. "Well, that's kind of surprising but also kind of not," he mutters, because Steve is now sending him picture messages.

"What is kind of and kind of not surprising?"

"Something," Tony replies, feeling like he's engaged in something secretive, the furtive passing around of love letters across the classroom or something equally ridiculous. He puts Pepper on speaker so that he can see the picture and says, "so, any suggestions? Nothing too modern. Remember, he's an old-timer, it's rude to shock old people with outlandish things."

"He's doing pretty well around you, isn't he?"

" _Rude_ ," Tony says. "This is defamation of my character. Also, I'd like to point out that I resent being referred to as a thing." A flick of his thumb later, he is looking at a stuffed toy version of Iron Man held in Steve's hand and he can't help the shocked burst of laughter. The message attached to it says, _A kid gave this to me and asked if I could please give it to Mister Iron Man. Should I be upset that he likes you more than me?_ "Oh, God," Tony says, snorting with laughter again.

"Are you feeling okay?" Pepper asks. It speaks volumes about their relationship that she sounds suspicious rather than concerned.

"Well," Tony says. "Define 'okay' and I might make an attempt at some sort of answer."

She hums at him doubtfully. "Landscape paintings are always a safe option if you're not familiar with what kind of works he likes."

Tony writes back, _Don't lose sleep over it, Cap, kid's got good taste,_ and then hesitatingly adds, _Bring it along with you when you move in. Few more days and then everything should be finished here._

"Tony?" Pepper presses.

"Landscapes. Gotcha. Thanks, Pepper."

"I have to get to that meeting now. How about I send you a list of artists and works later on?"

"Yeah, that's cool. Go forth and CEO to the sound of Run The World and make Beyonce proud," he says and hangs up just as his phone sounds again. _I don't know,_ Steve returns. _I think I want to keep it, it's cute._

Tony is glad that he's no longer talking to Pepper, because she would have inquired about the choked noise he just made. He gnaws at his bottom lip, thumbs slowly pressing down on the keys. _If you're so fond of it, I guess it'll be cruel of me to separate you two. Keep it._

Tony idly spins himself around a few more times as he waits for a reply that turns out to be another picture message. It's the stuffed toy again, sitting on a desk next to a lamp and neatly stacked books, the edge of a pen pot at the left hand corner of the photo and two pencils lying across a sketchbook in the middle. _Thanks,_ Steve writes. _It looks happy sitting on my desk, don't you think?_

Yes, Tony thinks, but he doesn't tell Steve so. He puts his phone away, wheeling himself into the lift and pressing for the basement level. If the picture has tugged out a smile from his lips, then no one besides he and JARVIS have to know about it.

When it arrives, the list Pepper has put together keeps him occupied for the rest of the evening. In the end, what goes up on the walls of Steve's bedroom is one painting of New York bathed in the fuzzy glow of a sunrise, buildings standing out against the roseate hues, and another of Brooklyn Bridge in watercolour. He is inordinately pleased by the whole look and has flowers and tickets to a Dali exhibition sent to Pepper's office.

To Tony's great surprise, the day the rest of the team move in, it really _is_ the rest of the team. Thor strides into Stark Tower alongside everyone else, somehow appearing as regal in a flannel shirt and jeans as he does in his gleaming armour and billowing cape. Mjolnir casually dangles from his fingers like it's just an oversized accessory to complete his look. Down in his workshop, Tony promptly chokes on his coffee and stares incredulously at the monitor.

"JARVIS, when did I stop knowing everything that's happening with this team?"

"According to my calculations—"

"Rhetorical question."

"I am aware. I chose to disregard it."

"I think someone needs to go to the naughty corner," Tony mutters.

"Are you referring to a punishment administered to a misbehaving child or to the name of one of your most favoured pornography videos?"

Tony does not dignify that with an answer because he is a mature adult.

Natasha says something to Thor, pointing at the camera, and Thor laughs, turning towards it. Loud and clear, he says, "our friend likes to have many eyes, does he not?"

"On this planet, we like to call it paranoia," Clint says. He's holding onto a box of some kind with his left hand.

"It's not paranoia if they're out to get you," Tony says instantly though Clint can't hear it. "JARVIS, you can redeem yourself by making some comment that will freak out Robin Hood for me."

"Of course, sir." To Clint, JARVIS says, "Agent Barton, if you truly wish to be acquainted with paranoia, I must inform you that I know where you sleep."

The nervous glance that Clint suddenly throws at the ceiling is worth at least twenty replays, Tony thinks. "You make daddy so proud," he says sweetly. "Direct these overgrown children to their suites. Interrogation will begin after I've watched them be sufficiently awed by my work."

A few moments later, he sees Bruce appear in the left hand corner of the monitor. Bruce runs a hand through his hair to rest it against the back of his neck and mutters something too quiet for the auditory sensors to pick up, before walking into his room. He soon comes back out, facing the camera with an abashed grin. From his fingers hangs the same Star Trek poster he had glimpsed Tony carrying months ago.

"I know you've got a thing for Seven of Nine," Tony says. " _Everyone's_ got a thing for Seven of Nine."

In the next screen, Clint has his head thrown back, cackling crazily – not unlike the way he laughs when he's drunk – and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. The box he was carrying, a beer box, Tony realises after squinting, is on the floor now. "I'm a lucky sonuvabitch," Clint crows loudly, no doubt over the archery range he's spotted, the one that's decked out with simulations and a quiver of incendiary arrows (the first in a series of specially modified quivers Tony is planning to create).

Tony leaves Clint to his glee and catches Natasha nodding to herself as she surveys her suite from the outside. She seems nonchalant, as if this is merely sufficient, but he knows better and waits. She, too, finds the camera and Tony is treated to that rarest of treasures – a genuine smile from the Black Widow. It's hard not to smile back even if it is at a screen.

For Thor, it is like discovering JARVIS for the first time again. The open curiosity with which he explores his suite only feeds Tony's grin and it's with a rumbling laugh that Thor discovers the stashes of pop-tarts that Tony has strewn about the place – Jane was very particular about that little fact – and he laughs again, much quieter and more fondly after discovering a room for Jane.

The final screen has Tony leaning forwards a little. Steve walks around like he's at a loss, a hand stretched out to touch the walls. Tony can't tell if this is a good thing or not or that he's waiting with baited breath until Steve begins positively beaming and Tony sags back into his chair in relief. "I can't believe this," Steve is saying laughingly and he disappears into the art studio Tony put in.

Belatedly, Tony realises that he's touching the screen as if to pull Steve back out. He pulls his hand back hastily to answer his phone when it rings, barely glancing at the display screen. "Did you like your suite?"

"You'll find out only if you come up to the roof," Natasha replies and without further ado hangs up.

Tony glances back at the monitor, catching them one by one vacating their suites. Something evidently pre-planned, then.

When he gets there himself, he finds Clint with his beer box and Thor sitting as close to the edge as they can, their legs kicking out into the air. Natasha, Bruce and Steve are cross-legged, their heads close together as they talked amongst themselves. Tony is momentarily struck by a thought, a question – how did he end up here, with this group of mismatched individuals who sit on the rooftop of his building, appearing for all the world like old friends though they only met months ago?

"Shit, call the press, guys, Tony Stark's speechless," Clint remarks, amused.

"I feel," Tony begins slowly, "like something has gone very wrong. You're all meant to be speechless, not me. You're meant to be in awe of how amazing I am and how I've given each of you your own versions of wonderland in this little ol' Tower of mine."

"Of ours," Bruce corrects. "Avengers Tower from now on, remember?"

"Of course I remember," Tony says loftily. "I always remember my clever ideas."

"Tony, my friend!" Thor exclaims, coming over to pull Tony into an embrace that leaves Tony literally breathless and then thumps him once on the back for good measure. "It's good to see you again. I am glad that it is under much happier circumstances."

"Right back atcha, big guy," Tony croaks, patting a large biceps and hoping Thor hasn't just left an indentation on his spine. "When did you get back? And why wasn't I told? Have the Twin Terrors been hiding you from me? Because, I have to tell you, you deserve to know the truth, Clint is secretly a—"

"Come and sit down, Tony," Steve cuts in and Tony might have said something about how interrupting people is rude and a very un-American thing for Captain America to do if he hadn't looked at Steve's expression (still so very pleasant) and it hadn't killed his voice in his throat. This really isn't how today was meant to go, Tony thinks to himself, but he's prepared to admit that maybe it's gone even better.

"SHIELD is keeping an eye on Erik Selvig and Jane Foster just to be on the safe side," Natasha says. "I was notified when Thor appeared this morning in New Mexico and picked him up."

"It is very generous of you to create a home for us all within your own home." Thor squeezes Tony's shoulder with a big hand, and a bright, hearty grin that Tony reckons only the likes of Thor can ever manage.

"Don't mention it," Tony says with his own easy grin. "I like collecting strays."

"The Bifrost has been restored," Thor tells them as he resettles next to Clint again and Tony drops down beside Steve, stretching his legs out until the bottom of his shoes scuffs against the edge of the rooftop. "I will be free to travel as I wish between your world and mine."

"Bifrost? Oh, yeah, the handy rainbow bridge thing. Am I the only one who's thinking of Zelda right now?"

"No," Clint, Bruce, and Natasha answer in unison.

"So?" Tony inquires expectantly. "What did we all think?"

"As if you didn't spy on us through the cameras," Natasha says, smiling. "I think I'll become very attached to my floor."

"Same here," Clint says, his fingers moving erratically against his thigh. "My own archery range, baby. Remind me to never get onto your bad side and get myself kicked out."

"JARVIS, make a note," Tony says out of habit.

"I believe my beloved Jane has shared with you my fondness for Midgard's pop-tarts?" Thor asks.

"Out of everything I expected to hear, that was not it," Steve says, Bruce muttering a fervent "aye" next to him.

"Yeah, she totally spilled the beans on you, buddy," Tony says.

"That was a most pleasant surprise as was the room for her. I cannot thank you enough."

"Sure you can. Just lemme have a look at your hammer sometime and that was not a euphemism, by the way, you filthy, filthy people." Tony wags a finger, _tsk_ -ing, and focuses on Bruce. "Come on, Banner, admit how much you feel like drooling over that Sev— Geek Heaven I made just for you."

Bruce coughs, leaning away slightly when Clint shuffles backwards and then leans in to peer at his face inquisitively. "You were right, Tony. Geek Heaven. Um. Clint? You can stop that now."

"But you're _blushing_. Why are you blushing? Is there something kinky in your room? Wait, has this anything to do with that kid from the cafe?"

"What?" Bruce cries out, spluttering helplessly. "How do you even—? _Tony_."

Tony just whistles innocently.

"Has the good doctor found love?" Thor inquires, intrigued and looking ready to join Clint in inspecting Bruce's face. "This is wonderful news, is it not?"

"Leave him alone," Steve says good-naturedly, eyeing Bruce's grateful expression as he adds, "he'll talk to us when he's good and ready."

It's Natasha who finally takes pity on Bruce and changes the topic. "What about you, Cap? Did you like what you saw?"

"You gave me an _art studio_ ," Steve says as if he can't quite believe it. "It's perfect, Tony. Really. All of it is."

"Good," Tony says, soft, and then much louder, he clarifies, "I mean, great, really, good to know I haven't lost my touch or anything. So much for big, ugly building, right?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "I take it back. The Tower is a glorious testament to your endless genius. How's that?"

"Hmm, better, better."

Natasha nudges the beer box with the toe of her sandal. "Drinks were on Tony last time," she says, leaning back on her hands. "This time, it's on Clint."

"Cheap beer, Clint? You sure know a way to a guy's heart."

"Yeah, through his liver," Clint retorts, reaching into the beer box. The beer bottles are passed down the row, Steve placing the bottle he receives from Bruce down onto the ground for Tony to swipe up.

"I don't know if I agree," Steve says, looking at the beer contemplatively. "Alcohol doesn't affect me at all anymore."

"You have yet to taste Asgardian mead, Captain. It is far more potent than anything I have found on Midgard and will surely do the trick."

"Yep, it's decided, Thor is officially my favourite," Tony declares. He chugs down a significant amount of the chilled beer and sighs contentedly. "I want me some Asgardian mead."

"I'll say aye to that," Clint mumbles, and they all murmur in agreement before taking a collective swig of their beer.

Tony lets a few minutes go by, watches the sun fall and leave a reddening sky behind, and thinks of dry autumn leaves, the colour of the Mark VII, the painting back in Steve's room, New York, beautiful and submerged in fuzzy light. He sharply addresses the group, "okay, are we in some soap opera or what? Sitting up here, drinking beer and watching the sunset?"

Bruce pulls his glasses down the bridge of his nose a little, an eyebrow lifting imperiously. "We saved the world from aliens. We should _at least_ get a six-movie deal and a photo shoot."

"I'll drink to that," Tony says with a shrug.

"To getting a six-movie deal and a photo shoot," Clint says, raising his bottle and clinking it with Natasha's.

"To Asgardian mead," Bruce says to the sound of Thor's delighted laughter. "May it bring Steve that much closer to getting drunk."

"To the Avengers," Tony says, finding that he means it as much as he has ever meant anything. "To us."

He inadvertently looks at Steve and Steve looks at him, smiling enigmatically as he repeats, "to us," lifting his own bottle in Tony's direction, all blue eyes and sun-kissed hair in the dying sunlight. Dazzled, Tony doesn't close his eyes against it though it's a close thing. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about Google in this chapter is a reference to The IT Crowd (hilarious show, highly recommended) and "Disney eyes" is a reference to [paxlux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux)'s absolutely brilliant fic, [Halo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/279661). I guess you could say this is the last chapter in establishing Steve and Tony as friends. Juicier bits to come! ;)

It's a matter of rearranging themselves, dropping old routines or shaping them into new ones. It's not easy but it's not as hard as Tony expected it to be either. In the first few months of living together, he compiles a list in his head. It's easier to have JARVIS create a file on Tony's private server, but Tony is strangely reluctant to the idea, wanting to jealously hoard this one thing to himself like a dragon with its treasure in poems of old.

A few of the items on the list go something like this:

\- Steve reads all manner of books. Novels, biographies, anthologies of poetry, even books on genetics and robotics pass through his hands. The first time Tony walks in to find Steve and Bruce discussing nuclear fission in one breath and Sylvia Plath in another, he almost asks JARVIS whether or not this is a dream.

\- Judging by the balls of yarn she frequently buys, Natasha knows how to knit. If asked, she will most likely provide an explanation along the lines of it being a perfectly legitimate reason to walk around with sharp needles, so Tony doesn't say anything. Perhaps, when winter rolls around and puts a chill in the air, he'll see what her hands have been creating.

\- After catching an episode of _The Tudors_ on the television, Thor falls as irrevocably in love with period dramas as he has already with Jane and pop-tarts. He manages to convince Steve to watch them with him and the sight of the large, blond pair sitting cross-legged in front of the television first astonishes Tony and then amuses him enough for him to join them once in a while.

\- Bruce has a fondness for imported tea and there's a cabinet in the kitchen that is wholly dedicated to the various flavours he buys. It intrigues Clint enough that he'll stare at it when he's in the kitchen but he never opens it nor asks Bruce if he can. Tony relays this to Bruce one day nonchalantly and soon after, Clint is drinking less of the coffee and more of the strange blends in Bruce's little boxes.

The list is destined to grow longer and longer the more he unearths these little facts and, at the end of it, the Avengers will come into clarity like a blurry photograph wiped clean. Tony can safely admit that he looks forward to seeing the end product.

+

Mornings Tony likes to spend alone. If he's not still collapsed on his bed, he sits in the workshop with coffee until the grogginess leaves him and his bones finally stir. With Bruce around, there is more often than not something left behind on the table for Tony to eat, but despite that, they hardly meet in the kitchen when Tony goes in for coffee.

The first time he finds Steve in there, he stops in the doorway.

Steve is by the stove, dressed in ironed trousers and a plaid shirt (Tony was almost beginning to wonder if he'd ever see that Steve again), sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he handles the spatula and frying pan. This is not what gives Tony pause. Living with Bruce has already adjusted him to seeing someone else besides Pepper preparing food in his kitchen. Steve's bare feet, on the other hand, leave him speechless.

Silly and insignificant as it is, it's this that cements everything in a way that nothing else, not even Natasha gliding around in sleepwear or the comic books Clint leaves behind like a colourful trail, has done. They're doing this, they're actually doing this living together thing, and Tony is sharing his space with people who he used to think of as walking mysteries and Steve is in his kitchen and his feet are bare like he's at home and he looks good, he looks _really_ good—

"Tony?"

Tony blinks owlishly.

Steve cocks his head to the side, questioning.

"Feet," Tony says. "Yours. I mean, your feet."

Steve looks down at his feet. "I don't know what they taught you at school, but we used to have feet back in the nineteen forties too."

"I know that," Tony snaps. "Of course I know that."

"Just checking," Steve says, looking up again.

Tony has never had any reason to feel self-conscious after waking up. He'll need to have inhaled some coffee for that to happen and even then he can't care less. Standing in front of Steve in rumpled, worn clothes and dishevelled hair (not even the sexy kind of dishevelled, but the your-hair-could-house-endangered-species kind), face still soft from sleep and limbs languid, he is extremely aware of his unkempt appearance.

It doesn't help that Steve isn't looking away. This is the time for Tony to say something or do something, but he just can't think of anything beyond the unhurried, open way Steve is taking him in right now. All of a sudden, Tony's throat is terribly parched.

"Breakfast?" Steve offers.

"Coffee," Tony mutters grumpily, shuffling over to the coffee pot and staring it dully, doing what Pepper likes to think of as his best zombie imitation.

"Pressing the button to turn it on usually helps," Steve says.

Tony's more intelligent than this in the mornings; he's around seventy five percent certain about this. Drinking coffee would improve that percentage up to at least a hundred and twenty. He grumbles incomprehensibly to himself and presses the button, watching the machine come to life.

When it's done, Steve comes around with two mugs and because he has apparently lost all faith in Tony's ability to function, pours the coffee out for both of them. Tony hastily grabs his mug, adds an unhealthy amount of sugar, and drinks deeply after a few moments of impatient blowing. The hot steam licks at his face.

Steve has the decency to wait until Tony is somewhat clear minded to speak again. "I would tell you to slow down because you'll burn your tongue but it won't make any difference, would it?"

"That's a losing battle, Cap," he says. This close, he can see that Steve's hair is slightly damp and he smells soapy and clean, fresh laundry detergent clinging to his clothes. Tony turns away before he tucks his face into Steve's neck and begins outright sniffing. "Important rule of the twenty first century: you don't come between a man and his coffee."

Steve delivers with a perfectly naive expression and tone of voice, "does that come before or after the rule about not typing 'Google' into Google because that would blow up the internet?"

"Hah. Funny. Very funny," Tony mumbles thickly with his scalded tongue stinging in his mouth. When he told Steve that, he had been hoping that Steve would believe him but all he got in response was an unimpressed look. "Captain America, funniest superhero in town."

"I don't know how you drink your coffee black."

"It's easy when it's the same colour as your soul," Tony says.

Steve makes a noncommittal noise. "I need to check on the pan," he says, finally taking a sip of his own coffee.

"You do that," Tony says. "Why tell me?" Steve looks down pointedly and Tony copies the motion. "Oh," he says. He pushes himself off of Steve's arm and slouches in the other direction, resting his hip against the counter. Steve returns to the stove while Tony stands resolutely by the coffee maker as its self-appointed guardian, taking smaller sips now at his mug. Aside from the sizzling in the pan, it's quiet. It's peaceful. It's nice.

"I think so, too," Steve says.

"What?"

"You just said that it's nice. This. Being here."

"Oh. That was out loud? I suppose I can't take it back now."

"Too sentimental for you?" Steve asks, sounding half-serious. He sets down two plates on the table, even pulls out the second chair but that's more out of habit than anything and Tony knows better than to feel peevish because of it.

"All I need is coffee, really," Tony says. "You know, I think I'll just go and start working."

"You're not going to eat anything at all?"

Tony swipes up a piece of toast and walks out. "Eating, see?"

The following morning, Tony gets with the programme faster. Steve and his bare feet don't confound him (he still stares at them anyway and what that means, Tony _doesn't want to know_ ) and when Tony is once again capable of full sentences, they talk about easy, light topics as Tony drinks his coffee and Steve makes his breakfast. Two plates of food appear again, despite Tony's refusal to take anything more than a toast, and so it goes over the weeks, a pattern establishing itself quietly without Tony realising at first that he's waking up every day at what he normally thinks of as an indecently early time. One morning, Steve puts down a second plate and Tony takes a seat instead of heading down to the workshop.

"You're persistent, I'll give you that," he mutters, poking at a sausage with a fork, pretending to inspect it suspiciously so that he doesn't have to look at Steve's smug smile. "Why do you always make two plates? What happens to the second plate of food when I leave it behind? What about the others? Why aren't we all getting the mother hen treatment?"

"Full of questions today, aren't we?"

"The question is when am I not full of questions."

"Bruce has already taken his food to his room, Natasha and Clint always eat later, around nine, sometimes ten because Clint likes to sleep in, and Thor usually comes in soon after you're gone. As for your plate, I finish it off or leave it for Thor to eat." Steve shrugs at the look Tony gives him. "What? I'm meant to know these things. I'm leading this team, remember?"

"You going to take care of us, Cap?" Tony doesn't mean it as snidely as it must sound.

"I am," Steve says plainly as any fact. "Eat up. Your food is getting cold."

Tony shoves some of the eggs into his mouth and chews. He doesn't know why he thought it was a good idea to willingly leave behind Steve's food. "It's funny," he says. "You wanted to punch the shit outta me a few months ago and now you're making me breakfast. Who would've thought, huh?"

Steve pauses in the middle of drinking his orange juice, eyes a little wide. Tony can't blame him; he wasn't expecting to say that, either. "I never wanted to hurt you," Steve says, putting down his fork.

"You managed it anyway," Tony blurts out, quickly growing horrified at his admission. The fork in his hand falls onto the plate, clattering. There must be something in the food that's making him as honest as Steve is all the time, because he continues with, "I mean, not physically, but. You know."

"As did you," Steve says, not unkindly. Sitting next to his plate, his hand looks lonely, and Tony almost puts his on top. "But that's in the past now, isn't it? We've said our apologies."

Tony nods. "You really didn't want to put me in my place? What about that whole "put on the suit" thing?"

"I wouldn't have gone through with it," Steve replies vehemently. "I wouldn't have."

"Okay," Tony says and this time he does touch Steve's hand, a touch as brief and light as the flap of a butterfly's wings, but it's enough, for him and for Steve. "Okay, I believe you. Loki's glow stick of destiny messed us all up a little that day."

"A weak man knows the value of strength and he knows compassion," Steve says, slowly and with an air of repetition. "Dr. Erskine told me that. That was why he chose me for the Serum. I don't want to be someone who abuses the power he's been given and hurts people, no matter how easy it is."

Tony has glimpsed a photo of Steve before the Serum and saw a skinny, small thing, too frail and constructed out of birdlike bones that could have toppled over at any instance and yet, his eyes, they were still the determined pair Tony looks at now, his head tipped back a little in challenge, shoulders straight with purpose. Even back then, he had strength, the kind not measured in muscle mass or force but in something infinite, an iron will at the centre of his being that radiated outwards, the kind Tony wishes he could give himself over to.

"Tony?"

"Hmm? Oh, did I zone out again? Sorry. Just thinking."

Steve asks, "what you were thinking of?"

"You," Tony replies. "I mean, what you just said. I think, maybe, if there can only be one man who has the Serum, then it's a good thing that it's you."

Steve stares at him. "Thanks," he says quietly, like this is their secret and he's going to take those words and hold them close to his chest.

Tony gives him a small, sincere smile, picks up his fork, and mumbles, "well, this is a cheery conversation for the morning."

Steve laughs sharply. "Yeah," he agrees, looking up as Thor appears. "Next time, let's just stick to the weather. Hey, Thor, bad luck, buddy, Tony's stuck around for breakfast this morning. Grab a chair, I'll make some more for you."

+

"There's evil afoot here," Tony mutters darkly to himself, glowering at his chess pieces.

Thor nods as if the words are intended for him. In the same tone, he says, "this is not unfolding well for you."

Bruce's face, concealed by a book on Guatemala's eco-regions, comes out of hiding to peer down at the chess board with an expression of carefully manufactured disinterest. He quickly moves his bishop to D7 and then returns to reading.

It's not unusual for Bruce to finish a book while thoroughly beating Tony at chess and Tony only glares harder. He crosses his arms and stares at the chessboard with Thor, viciously gnawing at his bottom lip.

"Pawn to B4," Steve says, seemingly just appearing into existence next to Tony on the floor. Tony starts so violently that he nearly tips the whole chessboard over, Thor's quick hands flying out to steady it.

"Jesus, Cap, give a guy a warning, will you?" Tony says, directing his glare at Steve now.

Steve simply says, "pawn to B4," again and studies the chessboard intently, eyes darting between the remaining pieces, mentally marking out potential paths for each one.

"But why?" Tony asks even as he moves the pawn as suggested. "Oh, oh, I see. Ha! Take that, Brucie. My luck's a-changing."

Bruce lowers his book again and frowns for the first time since this game began an hour ago. He looks at Steve warily. "A fork. I've been forked. He wouldn't have done that if you hadn't pointed it out."

Steve smiles innocently enough, but Tony has a feeling that this is his I've-already-beaten-you-in-my head smile. He suddenly feels glad that he has been playing against Bruce all this while.

"Are you well versed in this game too, Captain?" Thor asks. "Tony and Bruce have spent this evening schooling me in its rules. I think that if he were here, my..." He trails off with a frown and then brightens in an instant as if the moment never happened. Tony doesn't need to be a genius to know who Thor is thinking of. 

"I'm okay, I guess," Steve replies, going along with it.

Bruce decides to put down his book for the time being and, after some deliberation, moves his bishop. Tony thinks he might just laugh, because Bruce only has that expression of marked concentration when the Hulk is simmering a bit too close to the surface of his skin and Bruce is keeping him at bay.

"Come on, Disney eyes," Tony says. "Help me out here, save my chess dignity. Bruce is heartless, he's been trampling all over it for days now."

"Keep moving your pawn up," Steve advises. "Why am I Disney eyes?"

"Sorry," Tony says entirely unapologetically. As if Steve isn't aware of his large baby blues and the power they wield. "I didn't know you prefer being called Muscles instead."

"You know, I think I might prefer being called Steve more than anything." Steve leans in and examines the board again as Bruce ponders on his next move, his shoulder brushing against Tony's. "I thought you'd be a natural at chess."

"I just don't have the patience for it," Tony mumbles, which is not exactly true. He has the patience, can summon it if there is reason enough, but he detests long games, all kinds of long games, whether they are ones carried out on chessboards or ones conducted by someone he had trusted. It's only his competitive streak that keeps him coming back to the chessboard every time, even when he is soundly beaten. If he wins just once, it'll be enough. He'll have satisfied the desire to win and tended to his bruised ego. "When did you become a master at chess?"

"For every time I've beaten you, he's been beating me," Bruce says, making his move. "Apparently, avenging doesn't just happen when you've got a super-villain around."

Tony looks at Steve, astonished. " _Really?"_

Steve just waves a hand and rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. "No, it's just a coincidence. It's not _avenging_. That's ridiculous."

Thor laughs and reaches behind Tony to slap Steve on the back. "Then, you have no reason to be embarrassed, do you?"

"Tactician," Bruce says, pointing at Steve. "Alright, your turn."

Tony's fingers hover over his last rook. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve shake his head and Tony moves the pawn instead. "Well, how about that," he says. "Check." Steve makes an approving noise in his throat. Bruce relocates his king and Tony does the same when it's his turn again. "Still check," Tony says, grinning.

"Not going to win this one, am I?" Bruce asks. 

"I don't think so, no," Steve says, picking up Bruce's book. He flicks through it with the same undivided attention he gives all things big and small, the way that artists usually do. Tony might have scoffed at that once and thought it just a show, an exaggerated thoughtfulness to go with his exaggerated goodness. He knows better now. There is no exaggeration with Steve and Steve does not pretend. He doesn't know how to.

"This doesn't count," Bruce says. "You had Steve helping you."

Tony squawks indignantly. "Are you kidding me? This absolutely counts. Don't be a sore loser, Bruce."

"You're one to talk. You were trying to blow up my lab after you lost the last time."

Tony opens his mouth to object to Bruce's heinous accusation and is only derailed by JARVIS's sudden announcement that Pepper is making her way up to them.

"You didn't tell us that Pepper's coming over today," Bruce says, pushing his glasses up and rearranging the chessboard again with Thor and Steve's help.

"I had no idea actually," Tony says as the sound of heels clacking on the floor steadily grows louder. "She likes surprise attacks anyway, means I can't pretty myself up for her and she can brag to everyone how much better her skin is."

"That's exactly it," Pepper says wryly, appearing by the door. Tony grins, arms outstretched for her, and he possibly hugs her a little too tight but she doesn't say anything, her lips skimming softly across his cheek. "Hi, Bruce," she adds, looking over Tony's shoulder.

"Hi, Pepper. It's nice to see you again. I thought you had given up on us."

"I am bound to Tony by a ball and chain and I mean that in a completely affectionate way. You will never get rid of me."

"Damn right we won't. You know too many secrets."

Pepper nudges Tony gently and gestures with her head at Steve, who is bending down to pick up a fallen chess piece from under the sofa. "Introduce me," she whispers with an impish smile.

"I don't see why you can't do it yourself?"

"Oh, shush and introduce me," she says, nudging him a little harder.

"Ouch, okay, okay, leave my poor kidney alone, you crazy abuser of kidneys," Tony grumbles, hands coming up to hold his side protectively. "Right. So, Steve, Thor. This is Pepper. See, an actual person and not a construct of my wild imagination where I took condiments and pretended that they are people. She's the best of the best, really."

"It's nice to meet you at last, ma'am," Steve says earnestly. "Tony can't say enough about you."

Thor takes her hand and brushes a light kiss against her knuckles. "Aye, you are already held in the highest regard by everyone in this dwelling. I am beginning to think that the women of Midgard have no fault."

Tony wonders if it'd be very cruel of him to introduce Thor to Christine Everhart.

"Oh, please, just call me Pepper," Pepper replies, ignoring Tony and his inspection of the faint blush spreading across the bridge of her nose. "It's lovely to meet you both, too. He'll deny it, but Tony talks a lot about the Avengers."

"Do not," Tony objects as Thor excuses himself to sit opposite Bruce on the floor and try his own hand at chess.

"He says good things, I hope," Steve says.

Tony is uncomfortably reminded of the earliest conversations with Pepper about Steve, where Tony's kindest description of him was usually summed up as 'that dick'.

"You have nothing to worry about on that account," Pepper says serenely. "I haven't got any phone calls complaining about people drinking all his coffee, which is the best reaction you could hope for when it comes to Tony."

Tony considers objecting again but there isn't anything there to argue against, really. Steve offers to take Pepper's coat; she demurs at first and rolls her eyes when Tony says he's not going to offer to take it so she might as well accept.

"Thank you, Captain," she calls out and Steve smiles over his shoulder as he moves to put her coat aside.

"Shame you won't get to meet the whole gang," Tony says. "The Twin Terrors are out, terrorising the 'hood."

"Clint and Natasha are involved with something SHIELD related," Steve says more helpfully. "They'll be returning tomorrow."

"You'll just have to come back again," Tony says. "Grab a seat, uh, somewhere, I'll get you a drink. We're all on the floor anyway, because I was completely awesome and beat Bruce at chess—"

"With Steve's help," Bruce points out. "That's the important part."

"Steven, I may require your assistance as well," Thor says with a great frown directed at the chessboard.

Tony latches onto Pepper's arm and draws her away towards the bar. "Yep, off you go, _Steven_ , help out Thor before you supplant my place as Pepper's favourite with your may-I-take-your-coat and manners and other archaic habits."

Steve looks like he's biting the inside of his cheek to contain a laugh. "It was nice meeting you again, ma'am – Pepper."

"I'll find a way to escape him, Steve, and share all the embarrassing stories I have with you later," Pepper says, taking a seat at the bar.

"No, you won't," Tony sing songs, wagging a forbidding finger in front of her face. "I am going to get you drunk and then you'll pass out and wahey, crisis averted. Now, what was it you liked? Vodka martini, really dry, lots of olives?"

"It's about time you remembered."

"You're talking to the guy who can't remember his social security number," Tony reminds her.

"So," Pepper says.

"So."

"Handsome. Really handsome."

"Okay," Tony says, searching for the olives with no success.

"And polite."

"Okay."

"Very nice eyes too."

"Yeah," he mutters absently, spotting the olives finally and adding them into her drink with a grin. "Wait, what? Why are you smiling at me like that? What did I say? On second thoughts, don't answer that, just take your drink."

"This is surreal," Pepper mumbles over the rim of her glass, turning around in her stool to look at the three men crowded around a chessboard. "I'm watching a bunch of superheroes sit on the floor and play chess of all things. This is nothing I could have ever imagined when I became your PA."

"What can I say? A day in the life," Tony says with a casual shrug. He pours himself scotch and leans down with his elbows on the counter. "I don't know when things were normal for me. _If_ they ever were."

"This is a good kind of surreal, though. This is the most relaxed I've seen you in a while."

"Wait 'til the next end of the world plot twist. I'll almost die again, you'll stamp on my toes with your heels, and the board will be divided between kissing my ass and thinking I'm insane."

"Not funny," Pepper says, twisting her head around to glare at him.  

"No," Tony agrees, downing his drink in one go. "Not funny at all. I happen to like my toes."

She swats at him with a lazy hand. "You're incorrigible. But it's good to see you so relaxed. I really did think that you'd somehow convince yourself that living with them was a bad idea and stage a protest by locking yourself up in the workshop."

Tony laughs. He had been expecting the same himself and they both know it. "They make for interesting company. Never a dull moment. Early days yet, though." He refills his glass but doesn't drink it. "I hear things are going good for you, too."

"Really? Who's been telling you that?"

Tony taps the side of his nose with a smirk. "I'll tell you if you tell me who the lucky guy is."

"I don't know what you mean," Pepper says innocently.

"Oh, please. I know you just as well as you know me. You've got someone. Is it anyone I know? Can I scare them off so I can keep you to myself? If that's wrong, then I don't want to be right."

"No, you absolutely cannot scare him off—"

"So there _is_ someone."

"—and even if you tried, it won't work. He won't be scared of you at all. You're like a kitten to him."

Tony gawks at her in open shock. "Me, a _kitten_? Who is this? I demand to know his name. This is unacceptable, Pepper."

"I think I quite like keeping you in the dark, actually. You'll just have to find out for yourself, which shouldn't be a trouble since," her voice takes on a distinctly mischievous tone, "you know me just as well as I know you."

"I'll figure it out in no time," Tony promises earnestly. He takes a quick swig of his drink before saying, "I'm happy that you've found someone. Really, I am. You deserve to have someone who can give you what you need. I think," he tilts the ice in his glass to the side, considering, "you were right. We were never going to be enough for each other. I should have never put you in that position."

"You're forgetting that I said yes to our relationship," Pepper says, spinning around to face him fully, her earrings jingling. "Have you ever seen me do anything I didn't want to do?"

"Yeah, I have," Tony says. "So many things and most of them were for me. Changing my arc reactor. Going into Obie's office—"

"Us together wasn't one of them," Pepper interrupts. She takes his hand and squeezes it gently. "We were happy together and that'll never be a regret."

"No, it won't," he says, stroking a thumb across her knuckles. Behind Pepper, Thor and Bruce suddenly break out in laughter and Steve murmurs something else that keeps the laughter bright in their faces. "Moving on sucks. We're going to do it anyway, aren't we?"

"We are. Slowly. But we'll get there and that's all that matters right now."

"I think I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop all the time. Things have been going too well, almost."

"You can't spend all your time waiting for everything to fall apart. It might not even happen and besides, you won't get to enjoy anything that way."

"Easier said than done."

"Tony, it's Friday. We are not going to be depressed on Friday," Pepper says, throwing her head back as she drinks every last drop in her glass and puts it down on the counter. "So, will that be all, Mr Stark? Because I think we're missing out on all the fun they're having over there."

"That'll be all, Ms. Potts," he replies. He shoves his drink aside and they both plop down on the floor to watch a Norse god and a physicist best each other in a game of chess. It sounds like the beginning of a joke, Tony thinks.

"Finished catching up?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," Tony says, "We talked about all the latest fashion spreads, she's been trying to get me into heels for years, and," he looks at Steve's raised eyebrow, "I gotta tell you, I'm really annoyed that you've learnt when to believe what I'm saying and when not to."

It doesn't occur to him until much later, until after he's watched Pepper and Steve exchange numbers and Bruce introduce Thor to Pad Thai, that Steve has enhanced hearing. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this update has taken the longest so far. I'm afraid the chapters will be coming in more slowly from now on, as I'm returning to Uni in a week and will be busy getting Stuff done in preparation and then assignments will try to drown me. My apologies for that in advance, please bear with me! Thanks so much for the amazing responses I've gotten so far, it means so, so much! <3 This chapter was basically born out of watching Steve's deleted scenes too much (I have too many Steve Feels, TOO MANY.) and too much thought given to Tony and Steve as the clash between mind and body and then I remembered I actually have a Plot. Um. Yeah. Enjoy!

Tony thinks that he should've been prepared. He thinks that he fooled himself into believing he _is_ prepared only to discover that he really isn't. He thinks that this has nothing to do with Natasha and Clint and everything to do with him.

When they're separate, it's easy to handle. When they're together, when Tony can see for himself the demure bow of Clint's spine and Natasha's pleased eyes, it isn't so easy. Sometimes he's passing through the rooms and he catches them unexpectedly (or perhaps he doesn't and they simply pretend to not notice him) as they stand too close against each other, Natasha murmuring softly into Clint's ear in Russian, the words themselves unfamiliar but Tony understands the language of intimacy well enough.

One night, Clint returns to the Tower tense, his every movement harsh like his body is being covered with stone and he's trying to break out of it. In the few moments that Tony sees Natasha, she has a particularly stormy expression on her face that brooks no challenge. The following day, Clint is noticeably calmer and wearing a shirt with long sleeves. Tony glimpses them anyway, the red circles around his wrists where something had bound them together. Clint seems so much at peace next to Natasha, sitting on the floor with his head resting on her knee, that Tony has to turn away before anyone sees the envy in his face.

Unwittingly, the pair have renewed life in places inside of him that Tony had forcibly pushed into dormancy, places that _want_ and _crave_ the feel of another's skin against his, and now he can't stay in the same room as Steve for too long. It's futile to hope that Steve isn't sensing any of this through the Bond but he doesn't give any indication of it and while Tony is more than glad about that, a rebellious part of his brain muses on what he would do if Steve _did_ say something, if he'd deny it and run or if he'd sink to his knees right there and ask to be touched.

In an effort to mesh with his housemates, Tony has tried curbing his tendency to disappear into the workshop for long periods of time – and okay, maybe Pepper had thrown around a few threats that implied something abominable involving her heel and an important part of his anatomy – but after the first time he finds himself focusing on the absurd pinkness of Steve's mouth, he retreats into it more often.

No one remarks on his frequent disappearances, having learnt by now not to disturb him when he's "in the zone" (Clint's words, complete with the quotation marks that he mimes with his fingers). Tony has yet to hand out any access codes to anyone on the team and somehow also avoided being asked for one. That won't the case for long if he continues skulking around on the basement floor.

Tony frowns at the thought in the middle of steadily demolishing a bottle of Jack Daniel's, drinking straight from the bottle as he lazily tinkers with the schematics of what will be Rhodey's birthday present. Rhodey may have War Machine, but he enjoys his cars too – Tony has seen him positively slobbering all over his Acura – and Tony knows exactly what to build him.

"Sir? Should I grant him access?"

"What?" Tony says. "What, what, what? Grant who access?"

"Captain Rogers has been requesting access for the past ten minutes," JARVIS says.

"He has? Oh. Uh, no, access denied, busy getting drunk, but don't tell him that. Tell him something clever," Tony replies, bobbing his head along to Black Sabbath and guzzling down some more whiskey. Steve has already seen him through the glass, otherwise Tony would have pretended not to be there at all. It wouldn't have worked, he suspects. JARVIS has become rather fond of Steve and would've revealed Tony's whereabouts. Tony is sure that his AI is only a step away from waxing poetic about Steve.

"Captain Rogers has asked me to relay that he will not leave until you have granted him entry and that he has no qualms about waiting."

"Then let him wait," Tony says. "I'm fine and dandy. He can see that. I'll even wave." He flaps a floppy hand in the direction of the entrance.

"He has brought food for you."

"Hah. I've made Captain America my personal...food deliverer person? Is that the word, JARVIS? Find me a better one."

"Would it not be wiser to grant him access as he only wishes to ensure your wellbeing?"

"You bored with life as my AI, JARVIS? Feeling like monitoring 4chan? I thought you were meant to be on my side."

"I am indeed, as you say, on your side. I simply believe that so is Captain Rogers."

Tony sighs and squints in the direction of the entrance. Steve has one hand in the pocket of his trousers, the other hand holding onto a pizza box in his hands. His attention is entirely on all the blue surrounding Tony and even from afar, Tony can see how enraptured he is. "He looks like Christmas has come early."

"He is very fond of your endeavours, sir. It is only natural that he should become even more so in your workshop."

"You talk to him about me?"

"There have been occasions. I have not disclosed any information that you have designated as forbidden and Captain Rogers does not ask for anything overly personal."

"I see." Steve has shifted his gaze onto him now and while his body language is casual enough, Tony can see that he really will be unyielding today. "Alright, let him in for the sake of food."

There's a quiet sound as the locks released and a small screen beside the glass entrance lights up green. Steve mutters something, most likely thanking JARVIS. "You've been down here the whole day and JARVIS says you haven't eaten at all," he says. He frowns at the bottle in Tony's hand. "You haven't been drinking all this time, have you?"

"Maybe," Tony says flippantly. He wants to take another swig in the face of Steve's disapproval but his fingers don't comply when he tries to lift the bottle to his mouth. "Why are you suddenly coming down now? You've never bothered before."

"You usually come back up once in a while, but you didn't today. I just wanted to see if you're okay and give you something to eat. I wasn't sure if I _could_ come down here, anyway."

"Yes, well, there are only two other people who have access to my workshop and neither of them are on the team, so don't feel too hurt."

"No, that's not it," Steve says. "This is your space, isn't it? Where you're most comfortable? I didn't want to intrude."

"Oh," Tony says. "That's..." Nice? Thoughtful?

"But I do think that you should give at least one member of the team an access code. You know, just in case."

Tony nods. "Yeah, I'm planning to. So," he gestures to the pizza box, "that's for me, is it?"

Steve's frown returns. "Yeah. It has cheese in the crust. I'm not a great fan of that, to be honest. I hear you are though."

Tony almost drops his whiskey and has to put the bottle down. "Did you just – did I hear right? Did I just hear you say that you don't like cheese in the crust?"

"Last I checked, I'm allowed to not like these things."

"You're allowed to, but that doesn't make it any less wrong." Tony snatches the box away from Steve. "You are not having any more of these babies, you cheese-in-the-crust hater. Leave and muse on how extremely wrong you are."

Steve shrugs and swipes up the bottle of Jack Daniel's before Tony can protest. "I'll take this, then. Call it an exchange."

"I didn't realise we had a bartering system in place."

"Just make sure you finish that. Maybe we'll even see you upstairs at some point, Tony," Steve says. He examines the schematic one last time even though his photographic memory means that it's already living inside his head and turns to leave.

"You're not going to ask to stay?" Tony asks impulsively.

Steve pauses and glances over his shoulder. "Can I?" Tony hesitates. "Then, no, I won't ask."

Tony puts the pizza box down and runs a hand through his hair. "Damn it," he mutters, irritated, but he's not sure if it's directed towards Steve for being so obliging all the time or at himself for being unable to distance himself from Steve. "You can stay. If you want."

"Yeah?"

"I don't mind letting other kids play in my sandbox once in a while. You guys get jealous, I understand."

Steve grins and looks at the disconnected parts floating in front of him. "It's an engine, isn't it?"

"Give the man a medal," Tony says, impressed. "Yeah, it's just something I'm putting together for a friend."

"It's beautiful," Steve breathes, captivated, his skin flushed stunningly in a blue blush.

Tony has the jarring realisation that the schematic isn't the only thing that can be called beautiful right now and has to take a moment to recover his voice. "Uh, you mean the engine itself or just the schematic?"

"Both, but maybe I like the actual schematic a little more."

"Of course you do. Artist's eyes and all that. JARVIS, save everything and pull out one of the older projects." Within moments, the engine is replaced with a hologram of one of the earlier versions of the Stark Jet. "You can play around with it. It responds to touch, so if you move your hands apart, it'll expand everything. Move your hands close together, it contracts. You can spin it around, break these larger parts into its smaller components, go wild."

Steve looks genuinely fascinated, breaking off a part of the wing from the model and experimentally flicking it, grinning widely when it goes careening through the air.

"Don't have too much fun," Tony says, unable to smother his amusement. He gets out a slice of pizza, finishes it in four large bites, and reaches for another and then another, his stomach rumbling in gratitude.

"Is this something you can only do down here?"

"No," Tony says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You can have holographic projections anywhere in the Tower. Just ask JARVIS, he'll help you out."

"I will, thanks," Steve says. He tilts his head to the side, musing, and Tony's already imagining it – Steve standing in his own room, manipulating the threads of a hologram like it's a new art medium, deft fingers imbued with all the skill of a spider spinning an intricate web.

It's a bad idea and Tony really shouldn't be letting himself do this, not when he's already thinking about Steve more than is wise, but he leans back in his chair to appraise Steve's physique, the perfection of it all running right down to a cellular level, each limb humming with engineered strength that Tony can only match as Iron Man.

His tongue loosened by the whiskey, Tony doesn't think twice when he says, "science made you."

Steve freezes. The delight in his face vanishes like daylight expiring.

Tony tries to explain himself. "I meant that science made your body, that's all. Just that."

He didn't mean it unkindly, but perhaps enviously. Tony's true weapon is his honed mind. He has his own science embedded into his chest, that terrible privilege exposed for all to see, and he fights encased in armour forged by his own hands while Steve has been recast in the bronzed glory of Achilles.

Steve turns around a piece of the hologram in silence, breaks it apart. Eventually he says, soft but unmistakably curt, "You're right. Science made my body. But everything else is me."

Tony agrees. "The Super Soldier Serum amplifies what it finds within its host," he states, recalling these words from the reports. "Must've found a helluva lot of all-American goodness in you and then gone crazy. We should make cereal from you. Or after you. That might be more...ethical. Legal. Practical."

"Might be," Steve repeats dryly.

Tony looks over him again, sees immaculate kinematic chains moving fluidly beneath smooth skin. He should stop talking. Really, he should, but he doesn't. "So, tell me, soldier, what's it feel like to be perfect?"

The question seems to touch a nerve and raise Steve's hackles. "I'm not perfect. No one is. Maybe you should be sure of _that_ and stop measuring yourself up against something unrealistic. The perfect hero, the perfect Dom, the perfect sub, it's all just subjective."

"I guess so," Tony says. He tried once to be the perfect sub and it certainly didn't do him any good.

"In that case, whoever your Dom was," Steve says, each word tight, and not for the first time Tony curses how his mouth relays his thoughts without his permission, "they failed you."

"I didn't have one," Tony says hurriedly. "Exclusively, I mean. I didn't stay with anyone for longer than a night."

"Really?" Steve sounds more than doubtful. Tony gets the impression that Steve knows more than he's letting on.

"Yes, really."

"And not one of them noticed that you distrust Doms so much? Or did they just not care about how they were hurting you?"

" _No_ – yes – they – we are not talking about that. Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he says forcefully, standing up too fast. Sudden dizziness makes his head spin and he stumbles, Steve abandoning the schematic to slip an arm around Tony's waist and keep him upright.

"What do you think I am doing, Tony?" Steve asks softly. 

Tony has to tip his head back to look up at Steve. They're too close and his legs have all but turned to lead. "I think I may be a little drunk," he says, ignoring the question. "Just a little. A teeny weeny amount." He shows with his thumb and forefinger just how much.

"You don't say," Steve deadpans. He tightens the hand around Tony's hip as Tony tries unsuccessfully to get around him and grab at the Jack Daniel's. "You drink too much."

"I haven't been drunk in weeks, actually," Tony argues, "it's an improvement, ask Pepper, she'd tell you."

"How about I get you water, instead?"

"There is a water bottle on the workbench to your right, Captain Rogers," JARVIS informs.

Steve gently pushes him down onto the chair again and retrieves the bottled water.

"Why are you still here?" Tony asks. He stares at the floor and then at Steve's shoes.

"I thought I was allowed to stay."

"People usually don't stay with me when I'm drunk, is all. Pepper does. Did. Before we broke up."

"Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay," Steve says, placing the water bottle on the table next to Tony. He crouches down to meet Tony's gaze, hopeful.

Tony doesn't know if it's the light of the schematic or the light from his arc reactor or if it's both overlapping, but Steve's looking at him with eyes too vivid, like the sky at its clearest or stars that burn fluorescent blue, and Tony can't even fathom saying no.

"We'll need another chair then," he says and watches Steve smile.

+

"You're restless," Natasha states, turning a page in her book.

"Yes, I know I'm restless, I think the pacing up and down makes that obvious, don't you?" Tony says, fiddling with his apple. He strides across the room with even more force.

"Why are you restless?"

He pivots sharply on his heel and circles around the couch, catching fragments of sentences from the novel in Natasha's hand. "Am I being interrogated right now? Is this your interrogation technique? I feel as if the nail polish detracts something from this otherwise terrifying image of you reading a book."

Natasha shrugs. "Fine. Don't tell me."

Tony supposes he really does want to share this with someone since he cracks easily right there and then. "He wasn't in the kitchen when I went in this morning. He's always in the kitchen."

"Ah." Natasha folds the corner of her page down and closes the book.

Tony frowns. "Why do you do that? I hate it when people do that. It makes the book unnaturally thick and just weird-looking and by all of that, what I mean, obviously, is that you can make these books as unnaturally thick and weird-looking as you want because they're yours."

"So, you're worried because Steve wasn't there as usual for your mornings together."

Tony wants to bristle at how Natasha says _mornings together_ , as if they're something special and intimate, a time devoted to only Steve and himself. He wants to, but he can't. "Something's bothering him. I can feel it."

"Do you know where he is?"

Tony throws the apple upwards and catches it, throws it and catches it again. "No idea."

"But you could find out easily, so why don't you?"

"That's a little creepy, don't you think?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Are you telling me that that has stopped you before?"

"Point taken," Tony says. "But it's _Steve_. I can't just spy on Steve. That's just wrong. It's like spying on little children."

"He's not _actually_ a little child; I hope you remember that considering the way you look at him."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Just an observation," Natasha says. "I know you've seen some of the things Clint and I do together, I know that some part of you wants to have a fulfilling relationship too, and I know that if you really wanted to, you could shut Steve out completely. But you're not trying, Tony, not as hard as you could be and don't you think that says something?"

"Okay, that is so far away from the original topic that I'm not even going to bother replying to it. How about we go back to Steve going missing?"

"He hasn't gone _missing_ ," Natasha says. "He's just – preoccupied."

Tony waves the apple around menacingly. "Do you know something? You know something, don't you? Tell me what it is."

"Or what, you'll brain me with an apple?"

"I've done worse for lesser things."

"I...can believe that actually," Natasha replies. Tony thinks he should feel insulted. "You're going to find out anyway, most likely from Steve himself, and even if you don't, you'll just search it out and cause chaos in the mean time."

"You know me so well. I'm touched."

"In the head, yes, we're aware," Natasha says. "SHIELD has stumbled onto a guy who might be a member of HYDRA."

"HYDRA?" Tony tries to recall where he last heard the word. "Wait, HYDRA as in that Nazi group Cap fought against during World War Two?"

She nods. "He was asked to go in today and see the guy for himself. Fury's trying out hiding fewer things this time around."

"Are you kidding me? _HYDRA_?" Natasha gives him a pointed look that conveys exactly just how much she is not kidding him. "Well, that explains everything."

"You know that Cap might go off by himself after this. Deal with it alone."

Tony shakes his head. "He'll try to, yeah, but he's not alone anymore."

"No, he isn't," Natasha agrees. "He's better now than he was when I first met him. The past few months, being surrounded by teammates, friends, have been good for him."

"Did you take Cap in as your little pet project? You and Bruce?" Tony tries to joke. His tone comes out flat and a little sad.

"He needed someone," Natasha says with an uncharacteristically solemn expression. It may have come about from being the only Doms in the group, but Natasha, Bruce and Steve can often be found together, the roots of their friendship having sprouted quietly sometime behind the scenes. It only grows now, finding sunshine in each other. "And I think he's helping us, too. Maybe even more than we're helping him."

Tony doesn't doubt that one bit.

His phone vibrates unexpectedly and he is only slightly surprised when he sees Steve's name on the display screen. "Hey," he says as casually as he can.

"Hey," Steve says, his voice small. "I was wondering if you could – if you're not busy, that is – if you could come out, maybe?"

"Anywhere. Name it."

"You know that park near Marie's bookshop?"

"I know the one. I'll be there as soon as I can," Tony says. It makes sense that Steve would go there, it's small and hardly used and perfect for being outside and alone at the same time.

"Okay. See you soon," Steve replies, hanging up.

Tony stares at his phone before pocketing it. The agitation inside him isn't his own but that doesn't stop it from filling up his lungs and making it a little harder to breathe. "Gotta go," he says to Natasha, throwing the apple towards her.

She catches it easily and sets it down to pick up her book.  "Tony," she says, "ask him about where he went after we all split up."

"Thanks, Natasha," Tony says shortly and heads down to the garage.

He barely registers the drive down to the park. Autumn has added a bite to the air outside and even though he isn't wearing his coat, just a t-shirt and, over that, a thin, unbuttoned shirt, he feels the chill distantly.

It's hard not to miss Steve, hunched as he is on the park bench, head hanging low. Tony slams the car door shut louder than intended, takes a moment to compose himself, and then walks slowly into the empty park.

The crunch of his shoes against the gravel announces his presence. Tony doesn't say anything as he sits down beside Steve.

"Thanks for coming here," Steve mumbles. "You didn't have to." The air of dejectedness around him is so wrong that it makes something clench painfully inside Tony.

"Don't mention it. And actually, I did have to. Anyone of us would've come, you know that. You'd do the same for us."

"Do you know already? About where I went today?"

"Natasha told me the gist of it. What happened? Or is it classified?"

"No, it was just a false alarm. He was a fanatic, really. I've left it to SHIELD to help him...re-evaluate his views but now I can't stop thinking if the real ones are out there somewhere, gathering."

Tony's wondering the same thing too, actually. What if the return of Captain America was some sort of rallying call for sleeping HYDRA bases? The thought makes him inch closer to Steve, protective.

"It's not fair," Steve says, harsh, now, and the words come out quick, tripping over each other before Tony can ask. "It's not fair that most of the good things I knew are gone and what's left are the bad things like the Tesseract and, maybe, HYDRA. I thought I had died to stop them for once and all, but did I, really? Was it stupid of me to think that?"

Tony knows what he's listening to – it's anger that has fuelled too many punches in the gym, that has been swallowed down and buried over and over again but instead of quietly vanishing, it laid low just so that it can disburse itself in one go.

"No, it wasn't," he answers. "You did stop them. You saved innocent lives. Who knows, there might not even be a base out there and the most we'll be dealing with is fanatics."

"Who knows," Steve repeats hollowly. "Sorry, I'm usually not like this. I—"

"Don't. Don't apologise. Not for this."

Steve nods. "I'm moving on, I am, I can think about before and smile and laugh about it now, but sometimes, it just hits me all over again and – then there's this guy from today, you know?"

"It's okay, Steve. You don't have to explain yourself," Tony says, letting his words fade into silence. He isn't good at this. This has always been Pepper's domain or Rhodey's but he thinks he wants to try. Tony senses it when Steve withdraws into himself, here but not present, preoccupied with gazing into a decade that is long past. "You hardly talk about them," he says.

That startles Steve enough to bring him back. "Would you like to know?"

"If you don't mind."

Steve doesn't begin immediately, but when he dips back into his memories again, Tony ventures in with him. Steve relives that day when he and Bucky met for the first time, how their knees were scraped but their grins were broad, and how that was just the beginning of Bucky rescuing Steve from one fight or another. Tony is taken through bleak nights at the orphanage and rides on Coney Island, nights with the Howling Commandoes brimming with drink and laughter and quiet conversations with Peggy who Steve thought he could be with forever. Steve paints out Howard's crazy eyes when an idea struck him and Tony laughs and denies being the same even though he fully well knows he is. He doesn't keep track of how long they sit there, travelling the past together as if it has no discernible end, but it's worth it for the gloom around Steve receding with each anecdote he recounts.

"Listen, you don't need to answer this," Tony says when Steve tapers off. It's only because Steve is already sharing that he's even asking. "But you know that time you called me and said you were going to be gone for a month?" Steve nods. "What were you doing?"

"I went to see Peggy. Natasha, she used her SHIELD connections to help me go to England without anyone knowing."

"Oh, okay." Tony remembers that cheerless month, where everything seemed and sounded empty, Steve's sadness permeating across miles and miles and gathering in the space behind Tony's arc reactor.

"I spent some time with her. She told me about everyone, what happened to the Howling Commandoes after I, you know," Steve makes a gesture and Tony nods in understanding. "I didn't know whether to cry or laugh when I saw her. I think I ended up doing both."

"I'm glad you got to see her," Tony says sincerely. "I'm glad that someone is left."

Steve smiles. "I told her about you. I told her about the team, obviously, but I talked more about you."

"Really?" Tony asks, astonished. They were just about cordial back then.

"Yeah. She said to me, she said, "Steve, I'm not surprised you've found your Bonded and if he's a Stark, then I already know he's going to be a handful"."

"I can't really argue with that," Tony admits a little guiltily. "How comes you didn't get to have that dance?"

"We wanted to, but she was too frail, couldn't leave her bed so we sat together and listened to Benny Goodman in her room instead. I held her hand, it was so small in mine and I didn't want to hurt her but she looked at me, held on tight, and said "don't you dare treat me like I'm a delicate flower, I've still got a mean right hook"."

That pulls out a short burst of laughter from Tony. "She sounds like quite the woman."

"She is," Steve says, sighing heavily. It seems to take more out of him than air. "I guess I know what they went through now. It's worse being the one left behind than the one leaving."

Tony has only one thing to say to that. "Yeah, it is. It really is."

+

In the Stark family mansion, there's a box in his father's study that Tony saw a handful of times when he was younger. It's full of photographs and reels, the last, painstakingly preserved remnants of Howard's time with Steve, Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos. Tony takes it out one day and when Steve is elsewhere, he sets it on the floor outside of Steve's bedroom and returns to his workshop. There isn't any way for Steve to regain his lost world, but Tony hopes that this will help somewhat.

He imagines that the box will be opened by tentative hands and emptied gradually until all the memories it holds is spilled out on the carpet. Then, after everything has been looked at, it will all be put back in just as carefully as it was pulled out, the box finding a new home in Steve's closet, and from time to time, Steve will peruse it again.

Later, Steve comes into the workshop using his new access code, his eyes slightly red and his smile wobbly. Tony feels uncomfortable when receiving honest gratitude so he's glad that Steve doesn't thank him outright. The hand that Steve puts on his shoulder feels like a _thank you_ anyway and Tony lets it stay there, soaking in its warmth, knowing that Steve can hear _you're welcome_.


	14. Chapter 14

Tony isn't quite sure how Steve managed it. He's still trying to wrap his head around it while the train lurches forward around them. Tony Stark taking public transportation when he has some of the finest cars in the world sitting in his garage? Impossible. And yet very much possible apparently, thanks to the involvement of a certain super soldier.

There are too many people in the train carriage and Tony is squashed against the doors, desperately hoping that they're clean for the sake of his poor jacket. He is only separated from the rest of the passengers by Steve, who is leaning over him like an overly warm wall.

"I'm sorry," Steve says when someone jostles him and he is pushed up against Tony again. Tony has lost count of how many apologies he's already received in the space of five minutes. "I didn't realise it would be this busy today."

"You should be sorry," Tony grumbles, tipping his head back against the door to look up. "I hate you. I can't believe I actually let you talk me into this."

"It'll be worth it," Steve replies.

Tony scowls. It's an art gallery. In his experience, art galleries have hardly ever been worth it. "Let's just hope I'm not squashed to death by the time we get there. I have a feeling that wouldn't be a good look on me," he says. Quietly, he adds, "and at least it's too packed for anyone to get their phone out and take a picture. Imagine the headlines we'd make with the way we're standing."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "I wouldn't be – if there weren't so many people—"

"Relax. I know. It's not actually a hardship, you know, being pressed up against a well-built guy. Oh, look, there goes my mouth talking before my brain can stop it." Tony clamps his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth.

"Oh," Steve says quietly.

Tony turns his head to the side to stare at the back of a woman's head. It doesn't help, not when he can feel Steve's every breath against his cheek or the firmness of his body against his. Tony can't tell if he's leaning back against the wall or leaning forwards against Steve or even leaning at anything at all, just held up by Steve.

It's only two stops later that the train begins emptying and there's finally enough space for Steve to step away.

"Sorry," he mutters one last time. Tony realises belatedly that Steve doesn't sound particularly apologetic.

"Next stop is ours, right?" he asks. "I still don't see why we just couldn't drive to the gallery."

"It's more interesting this way," Steve says, peering out of the doors as the train comes to a stop. "Don't you ever get on trains or buses and just stay on until the end?"

"No?" Tony says, stepping off onto the platform after Steve. "I was always driven around everywhere until I learnt how to drive."

Steve pulls a face that Tony secretly finds endearing.

The exhibition they're attending is one that Steve has been looking forward to for two weeks now. Initially, Pepper and Steve had agreed to go together – a frequent occurrence with the two of them now, going back and forth art exhibitions and gallery openings, discussing Matisse and von Goethe in the same fluid way that Tony and Bruce discuss particle acceleration and quantum mechanics – but a last minute overseas trip had Pepper dropping out. When asked to go in her place, Tony found that he couldn't refuse Steve, but the more surprising realisation was that he did not mind this inability so much.

"Tell me about this guy again?" Tony says, tugging out patience cultivated by numerous trips to galleries with Pepper. The expression on Steve's face as they step inside is one that Tony recognises and is acutely familiar with, though, for him, it's more accurately called scientific curiosity.

"Joseph Turner was an English Romantic painter. They called him "the painter of light" because of his fascination with colours in his landscape paintings."

Tony vaguely recalls stumbling onto a book with Turner's name in his workshop. "Wait, he's the guy you're looking at in art class right now?"

"He's the one. I'm pretty sure you'll like at least one of his works."

"Yeah? What if I don't?"

"I have a voice in my head that sounds a little like Pepper and a little like Bruce telling me not to answer that question."

Tony grins. "How about that? The voice of my superego sounds a little like Pepper and a little like Bruce too."

Steve grins back blithely. "If you don't like any of the paintings, lunch is on me."

"Deal."

To be fair, Tony doesn't just walk past the paintings with only a cursory glance. He looks at the swirl of colours, the hazy skies and sharp lines of buildings in Turner's pieces and understands them to be beautiful, but that is only as far as it goes. Steve says something about envying the technique, about how his own attempts at painting are poor, and Tony argues against it even though he has never seen Steve's paintings. He knows better than to believe Steve, too modest for his own good Steve, when he says he isn't good at something.

They separate at one point and oddly enough, it's Steve who goes on ahead while Tony lingers to examine one painting. _Steamer in a Snowstorm_ is written into the plaque beneath it and it takes closer inspection for Tony to even make out the steamer hidden in the chaos of a dark snowstorm. The painting lacks the bright colours and precision of its predecessors; it is disorder and grimness instead, it is fighting, perhaps futilely, against being overwhelmed, and even if he doesn't like it, Tony thinks he can relate to that.

When he finds Steve again, Steve is in a conversation with a dark-haired man whose face is angled away from Tony and by the look of things, the conversation is positively scintillating. Tony catches pieces of it as he walks over.

"Even his darker works are beautiful, don't you think?" Steve is saying.

"You know," his companion replies in a low drawl that inexplicably irks Tony and makes him speed up his strides, "if you're a fan of landscape paintings, then there's another exhibition this week here on Claude Lorrain. If you don't know much about him, I could always come with—"

"Steve," Tony calls out warmly, curling a hand around Steve's arm and ignoring Steve's surprise. "There you are! I thought you had abandoned me."

"I'm the one who dragged you here, Tony, I wouldn't leave you. If anything, I should be worried about you abandoning me."

"I wouldn't dare," Tony replies, smiling coyly up at Steve, which earns him a raised eyebrow. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Mike," the other man says before Steve can. Tony looks at the collar first, a thin black curving around Mike's neck, and then meets his eyes. "I'm Mike. And you're Steve's—"

"I am," Tony cuts in. "Tony. Nice to meet you."

Steve says, "Mike and I are in the same art class. I had no idea he was coming here today."

"I hear plans are being made for another exhibition," Tony says.

"Oh, yeah, you should come too," Mike says. "It's this Friday, I'll send Steve the details."

"Tony's not really into—"

"I'll definitely be there," Tony says smoothly over Steve. Already, he wants to kick himself for willingly saying the words.

Mike's phone rings and he pulls it out with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it's the boyfriend, I've got to take this. I guess I'll see you in class, Steve, and it was nice meeting you, Tony."

"Pleasure's all mine," Tony replies, Steve waving as Mike walks away. He doesn't give Steve a chance to say anything, quickly taking away his hand and asking, "are we sticking around some more or...? Because I happen to be very hungry right now."

Steve glances at his watch. "No, I think we could do with some lunch. Did you find a painting you liked? I saw you stop at one."

"Nah, lunch is still on you. I didn't _like_ the painting, it...confused me a little, I think."

"Why did it confuse you?"

"Did you see the same thing that I saw? The whole thing was crazy, I had no idea what was going on. You could barely see the steamer. It was just grey and black everywhere. Miserable, Steve. I need something to cheer me up."

Steve huffs. "Looks like lunch is on me, then. There's a Chinese restaurant nearby that Pepper recommended."

"You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to steal her away from me. Just so you know, I'll get the Hulk to sit on you if you do."

"Good thing you know better then, isn't it?" Steve says as they exit the gallery. Back out in the open air, he offers his arm.

Tony looks at it and haughtily says, "I'm not going to be the pretty thing hanging off your arm."

"You don't have hang off, you can just hold on," Steve replies. "Besides, you didn't have a problem with it inside."

"I refuse to stand here and discuss this with you."

Steve rolls his eyes and resumes walking. "Come on, then, it's this way."

Watching Steve grapple with chopsticks, Tony decides twenty minutes later, is one of the most entertaining things he has ever seen. He cackles uncontrollably in his chair as Steve picks up a shitake mushroom that, just as he manages to bring it up to his mouth, drops back into the bowl. Steve looks so miserable at his failure that Tony laughs even harder.

"Stop laughing at me," Steve says, red-faced from embarrassment, but unable to hide his own smile.

"But I can't help it. You're so hopeless, I think the waiters are actually weeping in the backroom for you," Tony says, trying to reign his laughter in. "Oh, God, here, let me show you, you ridiculous man." He leans over to take Steve's fingers and positions them properly over the chopsticks. "Hold it like this and then," he pinches a few strings of soba noodles, "up," Steve obligingly parts his lips, "and into your mouth. Easy, see?"

"Easy," Steve repeats wryly, chewing, fingers of his other hand coming up to wipe away little splatters of soup from his chin.

Tony falls into watching him, forgetting about his own meal, forgetting that he hasn't moved his fingers, until Steve looks at him curiously and he returns to his chair. "Sorry. Hand-feeding's meant to be a Dom thing. Forgive me, good sir."

"I think you and I both know you're not really sorry."

"Do you mind that I'm not really sorry?" Tony asks after swallowing down a mouthful of dim sum.  

Steve shakes his head. "I know better than to tell you how to behave. I like you just as you are."

"And how, exactly, am I?"

"You're unafraid to stand up for what you want," Steve says without needing to think about it. "You're hard to keep up with sometimes but it's fun trying and there isn't anyone on the team who'd change you, pranks on Clint and all the dirty jokes included."

Somewhere in the back of Tony's mind, there's Clint's voice again, saying _shit, call the press, guys, Tony Stark's speechless_. "My biggest fans," he says eventually, incredibly warmed in a way that has nothing to do with the heat in the restaurant.

"I wouldn't go that far," Steve jokes, but he nods at the same time. "So," he says after a moment. "About Mike."

"I wasn't jealous," Tony throws in hastily.  

"I...wasn't going to say that you were? I wanted to ask about his collar." Steve puts down his chopsticks. Tony is fairly sure that Captain America is not meant to look so devious. "But since you brought it up first, you _were_ jealous, Tony."

"I just said I wasn't, didn't I? I'm not jealous. Wasn't jealous," Tony insists. "His collar. What about it?"

Steve grins, not fooled, but allows the evasion. "Collars were common when I was growing up. Isn't it thought of as oppressive now?"

"I wouldn't say oppressive, exactly. Back then, subs wore it in private and in public too, it was always on show. Now, we just don't want to wear it all the time. We have the choice not to."

"What do you think of them?"

Tony taps his chopsticks lightly against the bowl of prawn Kung Pao as he thinks. His attitude towards collars is a contradictory one. At times, he considered it too much of a statement. It went against the free lifestyle he was meant to represent (he couldn't be seen tied down to anyone, especially not to Obie) and yet he couldn't completely kill the desire for something tangible, something to ground himself with when he was separated from his Dom. "I've never worn one," he answers after a long pause. "It's not because I hate it or anything, I don't have any big issues with it. No one has ever asked me to wear one. Why are you asking?"

Steve shrugs. "It's the sort of thing I need to know, isn't it?"

"I guess so. What was it like in the nineteen forties? Not collaring specifically, but life just in general."

With an exaggerated seriousness, Steve says, "well, in ye olden days." Tony laughs and swats at him, dropping his chopsticks into one of the bowls. "Honestly? I think it was more romantic. The things I read sometimes and see these days, there's a lot of focus now on just keeping people in line. That's not how it should be. Submission is a gift, not an obligation. If someone kneels for you, they should do it because they want to and enjoy it, not just to avoid punishment."

Tony places an elbow on the table, leaning in, and rests his chin on the palm of his hand. "So, you think romance is dying?"

"You're going to make fun of me now, aren't you? Bucky used to always say I was such a softie."

"I'm not going to make fun of you. Scout's honour. Inventor's honour. Every honour that I can claim, which, thinking about it, isn't many – hey, don't nod, you're not meant to be nodding, Steve." Tony glares without any sharpness to it. "I should've known Captain America would be a romantic, though. Flowers, candle-lit dinner, you're into that sort of thing, right? And you'd call them your _sweetheart_ , too."

"Don't forget dancing," Steve says, amused and curiously determined. "I'd love to dance with my _sweetheart_."

"And go for walks in the moonlight," Tony suggests with a playful roll of his eyes. This suddenly feels like a game of some kind.

"I'd draw them, fill up entire sketchbooks with their face. They'd be my favourite subject."

It's a sweet image, even Tony and his cynicism can't deny it. To be lovingly rendered into ink by Steve's hand, to be stared at with such devotion that the feel of it will still linger on the skin long after Steve has looked away— Tony's breath catches. "No surprises there, Michelangelo," he murmurs and makes another suggestion. "You'd hand-feed them dessert."

"Bring them breakfast in bed, too."

"And cuddle in bed."

"And have picnics under the stars."

"And there'll be kissing under the stars," Tony says, smirking mischievously, a little reckless now.

Steve leans forwards, eyes dark. "You sure I'd do that?"

Their faces are awfully close, Tony thinks. He doesn't pull away. Those blue eyes won't let him. "Well, I wouldn't know, I can only guess."

"Aren't you scientist folk really big on knowing things _for sure_?"

Tony knows a challenge when he sees it and he sees one in the curve of Steve's mouth. "That we definitely are," he replies lowly, catching the waiter approaching from behind Steve. "Looks like you were right, Steve. Today was worth it, after all."

The train ride back to the Tower is different after that, charged with a strange undercurrent, something delightfully heavy hanging in the space between them.

+

"Finished catching up with Downton Abbey with Steve?" Tony asks, wiping the grease away from his hands with a cloth. He throws the cloth behind his shoulder carelessly, Dummy whirring by speedily to pick it up off the floor.

"Oh, aye," Thor says, jovial as usual when it comes to his period dramas. "The financial misfortunes—"

"Ah, ah, ah," Tony holds up a finger, "no spoilers. I'll watch for myself later on." Thor nods (it goes without saying that he'll join Tony for a second viewing) and returns to his inspection of the workshop. "You know, I didn't actually think you'd be very interested in what I do down here," Tony says.

"This is much like a smithy," Thor replies, looking curiously at metal skeletons, half-alive robots that Tony has already spent hours bent over and weapons that will eventually find their way into Clint's quiver or Natasha's hands. "I have great admiration for those with the skill to create as you do. The dwarves of Svartalfheim would be most intrigued by your metal constructions."

"Dwarves of where now?"

"Svartalfheim," Thor repeats. "It is another world, like Midgard and Asgard. My hammer was forged out of a dying star by a most talented dwarf, their craftsmanship is of the highest calibre."

"Gimli would be proud. No dying stars here, I'm afraid."

"Your work is commendable nonetheless," Thor praises, patting Dummy with a deep frown that's at odds with his words.

"Why the face, big guy?" Tony asks.

It doesn't happen often, or at least it doesn't happen in front of Tony, but sometimes Thor's grin falters, his thoughts taking a grim turn that casts a shadow onto his face. "My brother," Thor says, "would have enjoyed examining your creations." 

A prison is Loki's home now, warded with powerful magic that he cannot hope to undo. Tony imagines the trickster free and in his workshop, tall, thin and pale like a wraith, feverish eyes fixed intently on schematics and gleaming metal shells as if to coax out their secrets.

A while ago on a quiet night, Thor had given voice to his thoughts, the more sombre ones that swam far below the surface and went unseen for they were all usually too blinded by his grins to look any deeper.

"My brother and you are not so different," he said, and Tony sat down, intrigued partly by Thor's words and partly by the undeniable fondness with which he uttered them. They all forget easily that Loki and Thor are brothers – perhaps not in blood but in the millennia of memories that bind them – and it must have wrenched Thor's all too big heart to fight someone who has always been by his side.

With some of Tony's finest drinks in hand, Thor spoke of Loki's ever-present thirst for knowledge, his tendency to hide himself away as he absorbed the words in his books, how even now, as buried beneath his own anger and pain as he is, there is a deeply intelligent mind, damaged but quick nonetheless. It made Tony wonder if Loki's mind is too sharp, if he has always been destined to cut incisions into himself with it, if Tony's own mind is the same.

"Bring him around when he's out on parole," Tony says lightly. "Oh, parole's when a prisoner is let out under special circumstances before they've completed their sentence."

"It will be a long time until Loki finds himself free, just as it will be a long time until his rage quells."

"And what about you? What about your rage?"

The emotions that flit across Thor's face always appear magnified, each expression much larger on him and more alive. It is not different now, the despair that he has taken to hiding sits heavy on his wrinkled brow and downturned lips. "I feel no rage; I have not for some time. It is only pain now, for he is too blinded by his own hurt to see that he has inflicted hurt upon me. "

"I know, believe me, I know," Tony says. "It's worse when you think that they'll change if you give them enough chances, they'll be better, treat you right, but then they just – don't."

"You too have been grievously betrayed," Thor says, a statement, not a question. Tony nods, keeping silent. "You have my word, Tony, that I will not speak of what you share with me to any other soul."

"I know you won't spill." Tony sighs and pulls himself up onto a work bench next to Thor, something that feels like a socket wrench digging into the small of his back. "He was a family friend, I knew him from since I was a kid. He became something like a mentor to me, especially after my parents died. We were always close; I liked him more than I liked my own dad."

"You came to love him."

"As a mentor and a friend only," Tony makes sure to stress, his caution returning to him. "He wasn't my Dom or anything, if that's what you're thinking."

"But he had such power over you nonetheless?"

"If I couldn't trust Obie, who could I trust? Whatever he wanted from me, I did it." He feels foolish for it now, but at the time, Obie's approval was all that mattered. "Turned out, it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. And he got tired of it."

"I have been told that the light in your chest is what keeps you alive," Thor says quietly, looking at the arc reactor.

Tony looks down to find his hand splayed across it. "It does. Obie tried to have me killed and almost succeeded. In the end, it was him who wound up dead."

"He was unworthy of your trust and affection," Thor says, still quietly but with a very solemn note to his voice, like a funeral dirge.

"It was years ago, anyway." Tony shrugs, tries to roll off the dour atmosphere. "Can't get rid of me that easily, I'm afraid."

"I would not wish that at all, life would be terribly dull without your presence. With whom would I jest and drink with if not with you?"

"That's all I'm good for?" Tony says, feigning hurt briefly before grinning. "The feeling's mutual. Are you sure you need to go to back to New Mexico? Forget Jane, my ego's going to miss you like hell."

Thor laughs, a wonderful sound that resonates across the workshop. "I loathe to cause you such misery, Tony, but I fear I must return."

"Yeah, no, you two lovebirds go be mushy, I've got nothing against that. How does it work with her, anyway? You guys don't have Doms or subs in Asgard, do you?"

"Nay, we do not. I feel no inclination towards either of those, but if I must learn so that I may adequately court Jane, then I will learn."

"She's a switch, so that should make things easier, I guess."

"For the time being, it is enough that I am able to see her again and be in her company. You and I are blessed, my friend," Thor says, placing a hand on Tony's shoulder. "I have my beloved Jane and you have your Steven."

Tony can't help laughing, dislodging Thor's hand. "I don't know who you've been talking to, but Steve isn't my anything."

"But many nights I see you leave together to enjoy each other's company where intruding eyes cannot find you. He is courting you, is he not?"

"... _Dates_?" Tony says disbelievingly. "You think we go out on dates?"

"That is the term that Clint used, yes, and there was another phrase," Thor visibly throws his mind back and reaches for the imparted words, "I believe it was 'mooning over each other'."

" _Mooning_?" Tony very carefully does not shriek. "JARVIS, do I cry over the fact that Clint used that word or do I move straight onto plotting his demise?"

"I would suggest the latter. Should I put together some possible scenarios?"

"The more humiliating, the better," Tony says, priding himself on creating such an efficient AI. "Thor, we're not going out on dates, buddy, Steve and I are just friends. Okay, so we do hang out a lot, I'll give you that one, but that's pretty much it. Tell you what, next time, you come with us."

"I would not impose myself upon your time together," Thor says disapprovingly.

"Uh, in case you missed it, I'm pretty sure I just clarified that it's not our "time together"? No? I'm not convincing you, am I?"

"Your words do little to hide the affection you hold for him. You do not find reason to avoid him any longer, but rather seek him out. Lately, I oft see you tease each other like new lovers."

Tony coughs, because Thor isn't exactly wrong. "We're not lovers."

"Perhaps not yet," Thor allows, "though I do not think that it will remain that way for long. Your souls are already joined, your hearts will follow the same path."

"You sound really sure of that. You hiding something from me, sparky? Crystal ball? Strange, shimmering pool that you wave a hand over and it shows you the future?"

Thor smiles, small, mysterious. It is the oddest smile by far that he's seen on Thor. "I've lived a long time, Tony," he says, looking at Tony with those old, old eyes that have gazed upon more than Tony could ever see in his lifetime. It's hard to believe that thousands of years have gone by without denting Thor's youthful face. "And I have learned that there are some things that are worth waiting for. If I am not mistaken, the Captain shares the same sentiment."

Tony's reply is interrupted by the sound of beeping and they both look towards the entrance.

"Bruce, Bruce," Tony says as soon as Bruce has one foot in the workshop. "Thor here thinks Cap and I are going out on dates. According to him, I'm being _courted_. Tell him he's wrong."

Bruce gives him a long, blank look. "You're kidding me, right? Steve baked you a cake. Cake, Tony. The rest of us don't get cake from him."

"I get cake and it suddenly means things are serious? Are rings and promises of everlasting love things of old now?"

"Cake," Bruce says almost reverently. "You're going on dates, he's making you cakes—"

"Cake, singular, it was only the one time, and if you all wanted it so bad, why didn't you just take some? I did offer."

"—you have inside jokes, next we'll be hearing terms of endearment. And don't be stupid, like we were going to risk Captain America's wrath by eating the cake he specially made for you."

"Indeed, it appeared to me that the Captain meant it sincerely," Thor says. "Jane has told me that the ability to cook is a very appealing quality in a man."

Tony groans. "Steve means _everything_ sincerely. He's Sincere Steve; there should be memes with his face on it."

"There might already be. I guarantee you there are some Captain America ones," Bruce says. "Also, what about that time when Steve bent over and you said –"

"Alright, fine, fine," Tony interrupts. "You've made your point. Why did I ever think that you're a nice guy, Banner?"

"It was my abandoned-scientist-in-need-of-shelter-please-donate-now look."

"If I may, sir," JARVIS pipes up because this is apparently a gang-up-on-Tony day, "I'd like to share that, according to observations made in the past month, there is a marked difference in the behaviour between Captain Rogers and yourself."

"What JARVIS means by that is that the two of you have been flirting," Bruce states, Thor nodding in agreement.

"Only a few moments ago, I expressed the same thought but our friend here clings to his denial."

"I do _not._  Why are you even here? Was tormenting me in your schedule for today?"

"Movie night," Bruce says, spinning around with a finesse that speaks volumes about how much time he's spending with Natasha. "Steve is going to personally drag us upstairs if we don't get there, oh, in the next ten seconds."

"Someone tell him not to dare manhandle me," Tony mutters, following Bruce and Thor up the stairs leading away from his workshop and into the lift, "or else repulsor blasts will go where no repulsor blasts should ever go."

As the lift ascends, JARVIS says, "I have taken the liberty to inform Captain Rogers of your warning. He has replied that he is assured of his ability to find other means of persuasion."

"And now you're flirting via JARVIS," Bruce says. "What was that you were arguing a minute ago?"

"Shut up," Tony retorts, pointedly ignoring Thor's laughter and Bruce's grin. He doesn't feel nearly as annoyed as he should and they all know it. Tony doesn't mind that they all know it. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so extremely amused right now because the kudos count has reached 616 - ha! Easily amused, I am. As always, thank you for waiting and being awesome in general. I come bearing a gift and am really looking forward to what you all have to say about this chapter. :)

Christmas comes and goes like a boisterous neighbour stopping by for only a little while and suddenly it's the end of the year. Tony imagined that he would spend New Year's Eve with Pepper and Happy, Rhodey, too, if he could make it. Instead, he's out on the rooftop of the Tower with the Avengers (minus Thor, who is still in New Mexico with Jane), standing beneath a lightly snowing sky and shivering in his coat. The bottom half of his face is hidden behind a scarf – red and gold for Iron Man, a Christmas gift from Natasha. Next to him, Clint doesn't seem to feel the cold, his grin as bright as the Christmas lights they took down a few days ago.

"It's freezing," Tony grumbles. "It's fucking freezing and I can't feel it right now because everything is so numb but I know my body is crying and weeping in utter misery. This is entirely your fault, Barton. We have windows to watch the fireworks from, you know, those things that you like to fall out of now and then? You need to get a new hobby, man, seriously."

"Sorry, princess, are you saying something? I can't hear you," Clint says, fiddling with Tony's scarf until it's wound even tighter around his face. Tony makes unintelligible protesting noises that sound like squawks more than anything and furiously bats Clint's hands away.

"Good to know you're putting my present to good use," Natasha says, peering around Clint to look at Tony, a small smile on her lips. Her nose and cheeks are bright red, the rest of her face porcelain white, like a matryoshka doll. Tony wants to comment on how lovely she looks, but then there's the matter of how easily she could end him with just her ankles. Better to stop while he's still alive, he thinks, turning to his other side.

Steve and Bruce have hidden parts of their own faces behind scarves, too. Tony can see the red tips of Steve's ears peeking out and feels an utterly horrifying and irrational urge to poke at them. "Help," he says to Steve. "Clint is bullying me."

"Clint, stop bullying Tony," Steve says automatically, barely disturbing the flow of his conversation with Bruce.

"That's nearly not enough. Give him your Stern Look of Disapproval, Cap. That'll make him piss his pants."

"Oh, no, not the Stern Look of Disapproval," Clint says in mock horror, but Tony can see through it. The truth is, they're all a bit terrified of the Stern Look of Disapproval, even Natasha. "Anything but that."

"One minute left," Bruce says before Tony can make a reply, successfully diverting Clint's attention. "I think we'll be able to hear the countdown from here."

"I don't think it'd matter even if we couldn't," Tony says. "Clint can shout loud enough for a whole civilisation."

"Thor, too," Steve adds. "He'd have loved this."

When the countdown begins, Clint's enthusiastic shouts are joined by Steve's and Bruce's (that traitor), and Tony gets nudged on both sides enough times that, in fear for his kidneys, he also joins in, staring expectantly at the sky until it erupts into plumes of bright colour, the sound of cheering travelling on the wind over to the Tower.

Clint laughs in that crazy, cackling way he has, taking Natasha's face in his hands and pressing his lips to hers. Tony gives them their moment, not that he has any choice anyway, what with Steve throwing an arm over his shoulders and dragging him close, doing the same to Bruce on the other side.

"Happy New Year," Steve says, grinning at both of them, his breath visible in the air.

"Happy New Year," Bruce says, fixing his skewed, slightly cloudy glasses with his free hand.

"I'm not kissing either of you," Tony says. "Maybe Clint will give you one if you ask nicely. He's easy like that—" He cuts off with a yowl at the kick Clint delivers to the back of his leg. "Also, happy New Year."

"Any New Year's resolutions?" Steve asks.

"Not really," Bruce says, "but I think I'm going to go on a trip soon."

"You mean back to India?"

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe somewhere else. Haven't decided yet." Bruce shrugs as best he can with one of Steve's arms around him. "What about you two?"

"Continue being awesome?" Tony says. "Does that count?"

"Nope," Steve says. "Try again."

"Drink less?"

"You're already doing that," Bruce says.

"Drink less _coffee_?"

"It has to be realistic," Steve says, no doubt remembering all the times Tony has waged war on the poor soul unlucky enough to be standing in the path between him and his coffee.

"Uh, how about you get back to me later? Or never? That works, too. What's your resolution, Cap? Does it involve small, furry animals or old ladies, by any chance?"

"It involves chance," Steve says. He looks up at the sky, the fireworks tinting his face different colours, a sight more fascinating to watch than the actual show. "I want to take more chances. I already have enough regrets, I don't want anymore."

"That's a good one," Bruce says mildly. "One for all us, maybe. Do you mind if I steal it?"

"Not at all."

"Unlike the shameless, self-proclaimed thief that is Bruce Banner, I will find my own resolution," Tony declares loudly, one gloved hand flung out to address the whole city. Oblivious, the city continues with its cheering.

"You look like a crazy dictator," Natasha says. "A well-dressed one, at least."

"You always say the sweetest things. Clint is really lucky," Tony says dryly. "How long are these fireworks meant to go on for, anyway?"

"Don't ask the old-timer," Steve answers. He's still watching the show, unblinking, and it reminds Tony of the first time Steve saw a schematic, how he had stared, enraptured, while the light danced on his face.

Tony stares at him, at the snow that's encrusting his golden hair like little diamonds and the easy grin on his face, rosy cheeks and rosy ears. "You're really happy, aren't you?"  

"I am," Steve replies, blinking away the flecks of white sitting on his ridiculously long eyelashes. "Right now, I think we all are."

"Yeah," Tony says. "I think so, too. Although you know what would make me even happier? If I wasn't freezing my ass off. I think you'll find, Steve, that people are usually marginally happier when they can still feel their extremities—"

"Tony! The moment. Enjoy the moment." Steve shakes him a little, still with his arm around Tony's shoulder even though he's let go of Bruce already.  

"Fine, you manchild, fine," Tony mutters. "When did my life become a Disney movie? Ow, fuck, Clint, what is _with_ the kicking. Oh, no, wait, that was Natasha, that's even scarier. Hold me, Steve, before she eats me." It's dreadfully cold and Steve is always warm, packing a furnace under his clothes apparently, so it's only natural that Tony leans in closer and enjoys the moment like that.

+

"RHODEY," Tony yells gleefully into the phone, startling everyone else in the room. It just so happens to be one of those nights they're gathered together – Steve sketching quietly in one corner of the room, Clint trying to wheedle Bruce into playing Tennis on the Nintendo Wii with him while Natasha watches, reluctantly amused. Tony really doesn't feel bad for yelling because it's _Rhodey_ , how can he not yell? "Buttercup! Bumblebee! Bootylicious! There's a pattern going on here, have you figured it out yet?"

"You know, I think I just might have," Rhodey says. "I'm bored. Entertain me."

"Oh, baby, I like it when you order me around. Order me around some more," Tony says, laughing at Rhodey groaning in dismay on the other end. He pays only brief attention to the sound of a pencil dropping on Steve's side of the room.

"Why did I think it was a good idea to call you?"

"Too late. The deed has been done."

"Don't even think about ending that with an evil laugh."

"Ruin my fun, why don't you, you fun ruiner?" Mindful of the pairs of eyes on him, Tony shuffles out of the room with his tablet in hand, heading for the lift. "Please tell me you're coming back soon. I have to give you your birthday present. If I keep it any longer, I'll never give it to you because it's a masterpiece, Rhodey, it's going to _blow your mind_."

"A few more months still to go," Rhodey says, sounding ever so sad. "Can you at least give me a clue about what it is?"

"I can, but I won't. I want maximum impact, I want you swooning on the floor when you see it," Tony says, stepping into his workshop and throwing himself down onto a wheeled chair. On one work bench, there's the box of doughnuts he bought yesterday and forgot about, so he wheels over to it now, finding it already half empty. Steve, Tony guesses and JARVIS confirms. Taking a bite out of one, Tony says, "hey, did you know about Pepper and Happy?"

"Of course I did. She told me not to tell you."

"So, now you two are conspiring against me, are you?"

"The question is, when haven't we been conspiring against you?"

"Plot twist. Quelle surprise," Tony deadpans.

The sound of shuffling and low, muffled voices talking come through from Rhodey's end for a moment. "Five minutes, Tony," Rhodey says, "then I gotta get back on deck."

"So, you're going to just love me and leave me? James Rhodes, what would your mother say?"

"To get away from that Stark boy as quick as I can before he drives a car through our living room," Rhodey says without missing a beat.

"Oh yeah, she did say that, didn't she?" That was a particularly fun moment, if Tony recalls correctly. He licks his fingers clean of sugar and sighs wistfully as he says, "good times, good times."

"Feeling nostalgic, Tony?"

"I'm getting old. It happens. By the way, have you got any New Year's resolutions?"

"Uh, no? Other than to survive the damn year? Why are you asking?"

"Homework assignment from the Captain of all things American. Well, no, not really, but I don't like being the only one without a resolution." Tony wheels himself over to the circuit board for the communicator he's been busying himself with. It's been months since the Avengers were actually needed as a team but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. The unfortunate fact is that there is always one more megalomaniac out there to deal with.

Rhodey says, "try this on for size: _be happy_ ," and it doesn't even take him that long to come up with that, like it's been floating in his mind for ages and he was just looking for the chance to let it out.

"You sound like a fortune cookie, Rhodey. What the hell is "be happy" supposed to mean?"

"It means that you've got some weird ability to convince yourself that you need to be completely miserable and you need to get rid of it and be happy."

"I am happy! I am so fucking happy that people look at me in the streets and say "shit, that man is happiest dude I've ever seen, I want to know what he's been smoking"."

"Yeah? Well, good to know. Stay that way."

"I _will_."

"You do that."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Silence, and then Tony huffs out a laugh. "Did we seriously just do that?"

"Apparently we did." Rhodey's grinning, it's there in his voice. "Look at that, five minutes are up."

"Be gone, Obi-Wan Rhodey. Text me something dirty when you get the chance."

Rhodey snorts, says, "bye, Tony," and hangs up.

Tony drops his phone without looking, bends over the circuit board again, saying, "JARVIS, The Killers if you would be so kind," and doesn't come up until hours later, persuaded into looking up by a noise from behind him.

"When did you get here," he asks Steve, bewildered. He notices for the first time that the music isn't as loud as he normally prefers it. "JARVIS, you slacker, you don't tell me Steve's here but you mess around with my music for him? What do I even pay you for?"

"You were busy, so we decided not to interrupt," Steve says, flipping through his sketchbook. He likes drawing down in the workshop for some reason Tony can't yet fathom.

"'We'? Something you wanna tell me here? Are you and JARVIS best friends now? In a relationship? Oh, no, let me guess, your Facebook status is 'it's complicated', because, yeah, I guess it would be. Super soldier and AI, how would that even work, lots of dirty talk, I suppose, to make up for JARVIS' lack of a body, good thing he's around me—"

"No, no, shut up, Tony," Steve says, locates a greasy cloth and throws it at Tony's face. His perfect aim ensures that it hits, Tony scrunching his face and then throwing the cloth back at Steve. "At this rate, I'll definitely be running off with JARVIS."

Tony scoffs. "Baby, please, like you'd ever leave me behind. It'd destroy you."

"It would be an honour, Captain, to be your companion," JARVIS says.

"The feeling's mutual, JARVIS," Steve says amiably. "What are your thoughts on Venice?"

"You're planning your elopement in front of me. I cannot believe that you're planning your elopement in front of me. I don't know which one of you corrupted the other but you're both assholes."

Steve comes over to nudge Tony with his shoulder. "Are we hurting your feelings?"

"Conspiracy, everyone is conspiring against me, Rhodey's right, Rhodey's always right," Tony says.

"What?"

"Oh, it's nothing, just, Rhodey said – wait, you don't know Rhodey, he's my other best friend besides Pepper, he's," the guy whose living room I almost crashed with my car, the guy who I watched too many bad action movies with, the guy who didn't stop searching through the desert for me for three months and would've killed Obie for what he did and knocks sense into me when no one else can and still hangs around despite everything, "awesome, that's Rhodey."

"He hasn't come round? Or I've just never seen him?"

Tony scratches the back of his head. "He's in the Air Force, so he's mostly elsewhere. You would have actually met him ages ago but you were kind of...facing the wrong direction." He elaborates at Steve's confused frown. "Back when you and I had that argument in the penthouse, the one about why I didn't want the Bond, Rhodey was in the elevator with me. I sent him down to the workshop, so that's why you didn't see him."

"I remember," Steve says softly. "I was at the window."

"Hey, it doesn't matter anymore, c'mere, check out what I'm working on." Tony's hands flourish over the communicator to draw as much of Steve's attention as he can. "Ta-da, one communicator. It's only half done but give it a few hours, some more coffee and doughnuts, and then I can yell shit at you guys from far away and you'll get to hear everything crisp and clear. My words of wisdom will never be missed this way, isn't that just _swell_ , Cap?"

Steve rolls his eyes, reaching for one of the remaining doughnuts and saying, "gee, Tony, I can't think of anything better."

"The sarcasm on Captain America, who would've thought." Tony clucks his tongue and holds out a hand, "hey, give me one, don't think I don't know that it's you who's eating all the doughnuts in this place."

Steve gives him a strange look and hands over a doughnut carefully like it's a grenade.

"What."

"You don't like being handed things."

Tony shoves half of the doughnut into his mouth and turns back to the prototype. "It's you, it's fine," he says thickly. A sidelong glance to the right shows the grin that Steve gives him, sweet even without being encrusted by the sugary icing from the doughnut.

"The communicators we had last time weren't good enough for you?" Steve asks, earning himself a glare. "Of course they weren't. Silly me."

"We need a mission. We need something to do as a team," Tony says, thinking of the open sky, flying and flirting with the clouds, adrenaline roaring a melody in his veins, repulsor blasts the percussion. "Don't get me wrong, I don't _want_ there to be mayhem, but isn't there always some Big Bad out there? Last time was great, I even got to see the stars up close and personal." Steve's brow ruffles and Tony backtracks. "Oh, bad joke?"

"Bad joke," Steve nods, a hand brushing away the sugar that's sprinkled onto his deep burgundy sweater.

Abruptly, Tony remembers Natasha, still as the night, saying, _you almost died today and all he could do was watch_ , and he stuffs his mouth with the rest of his doughnut so he can't say anything more.

"I agree, though, we need something," Steve says. "Sure, we spar together, but we've only fought in the field that one time. We need more experience."

"Not a great fan of Fury but we're going to have deal with SHIELD more often than not. You want something like a training mission, maybe it's a good idea to talk to him."

"I will," Steve says in his Captain America voice, all steel and authority.

Breezily, Tony says, "I like it when you're all Captain-y, gets me hot under the collar," an absentminded pull at the neck of his t-shirt to demonstrate his point, his eyes on the communicator because he can focus on two things at once, "pretty sure it does the same to JARVIS, too."

Steve tilts his head to the side, a curious cat that's just smelt something intriguing. He's mulling over the words, Tony knows, filing them away, for future use perhaps, and isn't _that_ an interesting thought in itself? "I'm a lucky guy," Steve says, shuffling away, back to the sketchbook that Tony has yet to look through. "I'll let you get on with being a genius."

Around them, The Killers are still singing and they're saying _you sit there in your heartache, waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways_. Looking at Steve, Tony thinks, well, shit, I guess I am.

+

He jars out of slumber and falls off the side of the bed, his shout half muffled by the carpet. Tony forces a hand between himself and the floor, seeking out the arc reactor, seizing onto the reassuring hum and the blue light and, somewhere behind all of that, the heartbeat thudding like a trapped animal.

He closes his eyes. Stamped behind his eyelids is Obie's face, Obie's smile as he plucked out the arc reactor, smiling, smiling, smiling all the while as the shrapnel crawled inch by agonizing inch closer to Tony's heart and paralysis set into his limbs like heavy chains sewn into his bones. Obie smiled and said _you're such a good, good boy_ _for dying, Tony_ and walked away with Tony's metal heart in his hands. Tony opens his eyes. He doesn't want to think about how people walk away from him even in dreams.

He lifts himself up slowly on shaky arms and shaky knees, collapsing with his back against the bed, hand never once leaving his chest.

"Tony?" Steve calls out, his voice drifting in quietly through the spaces in Tony's scattered thoughts. There's barely a moment before the door opens.

Tony swallows painfully and mutters, "Thanks a lot, JARVIS."

"I didn't inform Captain Rogers, sir," JARVIS says mildly. "I believe you did that by yourself."

One day, Tony will figure out if the Bond is aiming to ruin him or save him.

Steve sits down on the floor, an arm's length away. Tony doesn't want to look at him but his eyes have taken to doing so anyway, having grown unruly when it comes to Steve. The usually immaculate blond head of hair is rumpled, Steve's gaze soft in the muted light of Tony's bedroom and his mouth sad.

It relieves Tony more than he can say that he isn't alone and it humiliates him too, the shame spreading across him like a rash, thick enough to make him force himself to turn away. He knows he must look as dreadful as he feels and this is not what he wants his Bonded to see. "It's okay, Cap, I'm fine," he says just loud enough for his voice to travel the short distance between him and Steve. His fingers tighten around the arc reactor once more. "Just a bad dream, that's all. You should go back to bed."

"I couldn't get any sleep tonight, actually," Steve replies. "How about I keep you company? We could...watch that film, the one with—"

"No," Tony objects instantly.

"I could just sit here with you."

"No. I don't want you here."

"Do you always deal with bad dreams by yourself?"

"JARVIS is great company. He leaves me alone when I tell him to."

Steve falls quiet, stays that way for several long moments, and just as Tony thinks to push him again, Steve is gone with the soft tread of bare feet. Tony doesn't call out for him to stop and come back, he just rests his head against the side of his bed and squeezes his eyes shut. He hates lingering in this odd region between wanting to sleep and being too anxious to, left jittery with energy he doesn't really have.

"Captain Rogers is returning," JARVIS tells him. "It appears he has found a way to occupy you."

"How surprising," Tony says spiritlessly.

"You once sought comfort in his voice, sir. Why do you push him away when he is here in person?"

"There are some parts of you no one should ever have to see, especially if you care about them and what they think of you."

"You're wrong," Steve says. "It's worse when you hide those parts."

Tony sits up straight and looks at the chessboard in Steve's hands. "I'm not playing," he says, glaring at Steve, who has long since grown immune to such things and nonchalantly sits down, setting out the chess pieces rather than acknowledging Tony's ire. Tony looks over at the door. Maybe what he really needs is—

"Coffee isn't going to help," Steve says matter-of-factly. "Neither is getting drunk."

"And playing chess will?" Tony barks. "If I want to drink coffee or get drunk, you can't stop me."

"If it's not going to help you, then I can and I will."

"Is this you asserting authority? I don't need you hovering around me like some sort of babysitter, Cap."

Steve doesn't rise to the bait, tapping into that pool of patience that Tony envies him for. "I'm just looking out for a friend, that's all. You need to sleep, but you won't because you don't want to have another nightmare, and you tell me that you want me gone, but the Bond tells me you mean the opposite. So, a compromise." He points to the chessboard. "Hopefully, it'll get you tired enough that you get the sleep you need."

Tony's aware that he argues sometimes just for the sake of arguing. The exhaustion sits as a deep-seated ache in his eyes and in his limbs, flaring like an old wound even as he says, "I've had enough sleep for tonight." He presses onto his chest harder, wants to burn the hum of the arc reactor into his skin and be awash in its glow all the time.

"That's not what it looks from here," Steve replies. His eyes fall unmistakably onto Tony's desperate grip on the arc reactor.

Tony forces himself to lower his hand, getting onto his feet. He paces up and down the room impatiently, like a hurricane is running riot in his blood. Steve keeps watch, the calm to Tony's tempest.

"Are you going to punish me?" Tony asks briskly, a tremor running through his hand and that hand running through his hair.

"For what?"

"For acting out. Shouting at you." Obie would have.

"You've done that countless times before." A hint of amusement there at the edge of Steve's lips. "I'm not your Dom, I can't punish you."

"But you would if you were, if I said yes to you."

"You shouldn't presume what I would and wouldn't do." It is at once a reproach and a request. Steve never once changes his inflection but Tony can tell these things now.

He returns to his pacing, up and down, up and down, thinking he can even see the footprints he's leaving behind which is ridiculous because his carpet isn't made out of snow, not like the roads outside that are white and firm and icy, but they won't stay that way for long, they'll get darker and darker the more people walk down the streets, any beauty vanishing along with the white, isn't that how it always is, Steve, then again, what would you know, if there's anyone who can't be tarnished, it's you—

"Tony," Steve says suddenly, a low, gravelly rumble that Tony feels keenly, as if it had originated from his own chest. Through the Bond, it curls around him, a caress that puts an end to his spiel, touching his restless mind soothingly and coaxing him into stillness.

Tony breathes out.

"Come here," Steve says, much softer. Five steps have Tony back to where he was sitting, staring at Steve with wide eyes. "Let's play a few rounds."

The chess pieces Steve has yet to position are little flashes in the carpet. Tony hesitates and then picks them up and together, they place everything in its rightful order.

"Ready?" Steve asks, waiting for Tony's nod and then opening the first round by moving a pawn.

They play without talking, leaving the conversation to the gentle taps of their chess pieces against the board. Tony counts the taps to keep all other thoughts away and he plays recklessly, so it comes as no surprise to either of them when he loses the first game. He'll most likely lose all of the subsequent ones too, but win some peace of mind and he supposes that's what Steve's endgame is, anyway. It is entirely in Steve's nature to orchestrate some sort of victory for the both of them.

Tony thinks more carefully during the second game, considers the strategies he's picked up from Bruce, counts the taps again. Halfway through, watching Steve's knight eat up his pawn, Tony says, "you want me to talk, don't you."

"I do, but I won't make you."

"Good, because this is humiliating enough without having _that_ conversation."

"Why is it humiliating? Do you think you're weak because you can't fight something you have no control over anyway?"

"I'm not weak," Tony says with a scowl, trying not to snap. He shouldn't have said anything at all, should've just stuck to playing however many rounds of chess it'd take for his body to finally give into sleep. "I'm still here. Even after everything, I'm _still here_. I'm not weak." But sometimes he feels like it anyway, when he remembers all the things he has done and feels ashamed for ever having done them.

"You're not," Steve agrees. "That doesn't mean you have to do this alone. This silence of yours is hurting you more than it's helping you."

"I'm not a masochist. I have good reasons for what I'm doing."

"I'd like to hear those reasons and see if I agree."

"I'm sure you would," Tony says unpleasantly, holding onto the bishop in his hand tightly. "I can tell you all about Afghanistan, share exactly what I went through to get this little beauty," he taps the arc reactor with his other hand, "I was awake, you know, when they were trying to get the shrapnel out of my chest, felt every moment of it."

"You—"

"No, no, you want me to talk, right?" Tony says over Steve in a frantic rush, a hurricane swirling in his blood again, words bubbling up rebelliously, tired of Tony constantly evading and silencing them, "You want me to, to tell you about Obie, that's what you're really interested in. About what we were to each other and what we weren't, about how he changed and I had no idea why, and about his punishments, about all those other people I fucked when I was with him. All the pieces of the puzzle you've been trying to put together, would you like to hear them all, Steve?"

Tony waits with impatience for a reply, wondering furiously why Steve isn't saying anything, why this silence is so unnerving, why Steve's face has become so tense, his jaw set, fighting to keep something back even though it looks like it's hurting him –

The bishop falls from Tony's fingers.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, _fuck_.

Tony shoves himself away from the chessboard and stands up. "I wasn't meant to say that. I was not meant to fucking say that."

"Don't," Steve says, not quite a plea, not quite an order, somewhere in between. "Don't run, Tony."

Tony's muscles are tight and set to do exactly what Steve is asking him not to. Secrets never remain in the darkness for long; they always seem to seek out the light even as they hide. It might have been foolish for Tony to think that he could circumvent that, but he has always fancied that he can manage the impossible, keep buried a secret that sits as heavy as his arc reactor. He doesn't appreciate the reminder that he can't.

"I need to – not be here. I need to go, _fuck,_ how do you do this to me without even meaning to? How do you make me forget and, I, I can't think when I'm around you, Steve, and I end up saying shit I shouldn't be saying."

"No, this is exactly what you should be saying," Steve says. "It's eating you up, Tony, and you're letting it by just burying it and burying it. I won't ask anything, not tonight." Steve reaches across the chessboard, hand dropping back down halfway. More of the chess pieces fall to the ground. The game is ruined, Tony thinks distantly. "But please don't run."

There's an expression that Steve has, it's one that Tony has never seen on anyone else, one that could make the world willingly bend to Steve's will because of how guileless it is and Tony is but one man, he has no resistance against such a thing. He doesn't run and it's perfectly obvious right there, isn't it, how far he's come already, how so much of him has already seeped out and so much of Steve filled in those spaces that, even when Tony wants to disappear into somewhere Obie's ghost cannot reach him, he stays because Steve wants him to.

Tony stares at nothing, Steve stares at Tony staring at nothing, a pair of statues that just happen to have a pulse, and they lose time simply like that.

"You need to leave," Tony says quietly.

"I can't," Steve says.

"Yes, you can. You get up off the floor and you walk through that door. It's not rocket science, Cap." Tony turns away, says "fuck, fuck, fuck," to himself, the mantra of the royally stupid geniuses who let things slip.

"If – if Pepper was standing in front of you, if you could see she was hurting, would you leave her? When she means so much to you, could you ever make yourself leave her?"

"That's different," Tony says, whirling around. He's a hypocrite, he knows. He wants to know everything about the ones he loves, every moment of happiness and every moment of pain and wants to never let them face any of it alone. He wants them to let him in but makes a forbidden territory out of himself, keeping them out of him. "That's _different_. It just is."

"It isn't and you know it," Steve says. From the beginning, he has never been afraid to get in Tony's face or make him confront himself. "I can't ignore this."

"You said you won't ask anything tonight."

"I won't."

"What makes you think I'll tell you anything if you ask again? I could just shut you out."

"You could but I don't think you will. I think you want to tell someone. Anyone."

"Got me figured out, have you?" All Tony's fault, of course. He let it happen, let Steve and his clever, clever eyes stay near him long enough until they learnt the key to deciphering Tony's contradictions and began finding sense where there is seemingly no sense to be found, only a difficult man with too much money and ego.

Steve moves the chessboard in between them to the side and clambers onto his feet. "You run and you hide and you argue when what you want is someone to stop you before you can lock yourself away."

But no one can, because Tony has become so good at running and hiding and arguing that no one puts up a good fight anymore.

"And that someone is you, is it?"

"Don't run," Steve says, coming closer slowly. Tony doesn't. "If you let me, I can be," he says, low, only for Tony's ears even though there's no one else here except for JARVIS hidden in the walls. Steve whispers, "I want to be that someone, Tony," like that's _his_ secret, a precious offering, his heart on a silver platter.

Tony has to tell himself to breathe again. "You don't know what you want."

"It's you who doesn't know what he wants." Hands down by his side, clenched shut like that's the only way he can control them, Steve steps nearer. "Tell me what you want."

Tony is tired. He is tired and he wants to sleep and Steve is looking at him like he wants to hold him, take care of him, never let him go, so he allows himself this moment of weakness, admitting quietly, "I don't want to be alone. I've never wanted to be alone."

"No, being alone isn't fun," Steve says with all the jadedness of a man who understands loneliness all too well. "You won't be. I won't let you."

"That's a nice sentiment."

"Not just a sentiment." Steve takes Tony's hands in his. "Don't run," he says. Tony doesn't. "Let me do this. Just for tonight."

Tony counts the slow swipes of Steve's thumbs across his knuckles.

Don't run, Steve said.

Be happy, Rhodey said.

Tony reaches fifteen by the time he whispers, "just for tonight," and sways into Steve, tucking his face against a neck that smells clean like the air after a thunderstorm, no hint of a foreign cigar or cloying cologne. He breathes it in greedily.

Steve's arms come together around him, steady and strong, one hand a warm weight on the back of Tony's neck, his mouth murmuring against Tony's temple over and over again, "you're not alone, I've got you, now." Tony burrows deeper, fingers twisting into the fabric across Steve's chest, eyes closed. Gradually, he relaxes, tense muscles lulled into settling down. "I've got you," Steve whispers. 

"Have you?" Tony whispers back. 

"Yes. You're not alone. Not tonight."

Tony doesn't reply and they sink into silence. 

Minutes later, hours later, Steve says, "you're falling asleep."

"I don't want to," Tony says after a slow yawn, eyes merely slits that he can barely push wide open. "If you close your eyes, they can get you."

Steve doesn't ask him what he means, only mutters, "yeah, I know," and Tony wonders blearily what haunts Steve in his dreams, whether it's war and death coming back to say hello to an old friend or if it's the faces of comrades lost. "Time to lie down, come on."

The blankets have cooled down and Tony shivers under them as they are draped over him. "Will you stay?" he asks, fighting to stay awake long enough to hear the answer. "Just for tonight?"

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Steve leans over him, his knuckles skimming against Tony's cheek. "I will," he says. "Go to sleep, Tony. I'll be here when you wake up."

The touch of a ghost is not so easy to shake off. Tony grabs onto Steve's hand and holds on tight to its warmth and life and solidness, an anchor that will keep him close to Steve even if their dreams take them in different directions.

Vaguely, he feels the curve of Steve's body slot itself around his, the whisper of air against his ear, Steve speaking words that Tony's mind is already too far away to take heed of. In the morning, his fears will come back to him and he will agonize over what to do, but that is still a while away. For now, Tony and his worn down bones rest against their Bonded, safe finally. If there are any more dreams for him to dream tonight, he wants them to be of blue eyes and sun-kissed hair. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! Aside from my issues with free time, this chapter was just incredibly hard to write and wouldn't co-operate with me. Hope you enjoy. :)

Tony wakes not with another quick snap into consciousness, but a slow, smooth glide that he doesn't get much of these days. There are fingers in his hair, idly stroking, and a heartbeat beneath his hand. Though he hasn't shared his bed with anyone for some time, he knows he has no reason to be concerned. Loose limbed and languorous, Tony lingers in the orange glow of his closed lids some more. It's quiet and the quiet doesn't make his thoughts hum louder as it usually does. He thinks he could get used to this.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Steve says, baritone roughened by sleep. Tony hears Brooklyn in that huskiness and shivers.

"'m not awake," he mumbles, resolutely keeping his eyes shut. Steve is so close that they must be sharing the same pillow.

Steve's laugh is a quiet skitter across the side of Tony's face. "Alright then, you're not."

Tony cracks his eyes open to be contradictory. Curled around him like a half-moon embracing all it can of the sky, Steve is smiling, the edges of his mouth soft, his hair in his eyes, and it's a lightning bolt to the spine, it's a glimpse of the future that's there in arm's reach – Tony needs only to close his fingers around it. "How long have you been awake?" he asks.

"I don't know."

Tony looks at the hand he has on Steve's chest, unable to remember if he fell asleep with it there or if he sought out Steve's heart in his sleep, the body knowing in its unusual way the desires that the conscious mind cannot – will not – yet comprehend. "But you've been watching me sleep all this time. That's creepy."

"Sorry," Steve replies, unrepentant.

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not." Also unrepentant.

Tony feels Steve's heart thud three more times and then takes his hand away. He knows what Steve will say even before Steve says it.

"Don't run."  

"Last night is over," Tony says, but he doesn't move to leave. If he really wanted to, then he would have been gone already, back to his workshop or even the mansion in Malibu, leaving nothing but empty air and a cold space to greet Steve when he opened his eyes.

"I know," Steve says with sad resignation. "I meant what I said."

"I know," Tony echoes. "You always do." It's Tony who lies, weaving half-truths with other-half truths into a false tapestry that's honest only if you know where to look. "I still need to think," he adds, mouth twisting downwards sullenly. Some coffee would be nice right about now.

Steve runs one broad palm soothingly up and down his back with a casualness that suggests it's an old habit he's merely indulging in again. Tony's body sinks back against it, responding like it really is a habit. "That's fine. Just – just don't shut me out. That's all I ask."

"When I'm ready," Tony says, "I'll come to you and tell you what you want to know."

Steve must know that this is the closest thing to a promise that will come out of Tony, because he says, "I'll wait, then," and lets that be the end of it.  

Tony looks over Steve's shoulder and at the windows that do not stare at him with a too blue gaze. Their breathing is loud in the quiet of the bedroom.

"Still tired?" Steve asks when Tony closes his eyes. "You should sleep in. You don't nearly get enough sleep."

Tony would argue, but he does still feel tired. "JARVIS, what time is it?"

"Eight thirty two a.m.," JARVIS answers.

Every day, Steve wakes up at six for his run. Tony has never known for him to miss it. "It's still early. You can go for your run."

"Okay," Steve says after a moment, sounding like he is conceding to something, a secret request that Tony has made. His hand climbs Tony's spine one more time before withdrawing.

Tony opens his eyes to watch Steve throw his legs over the side and stand up. He stretches, spine curving sinuously, his t-shirt rising momentarily and baring smooth skin. There's an odd moment where Steve almost bends down, like he wants to brush away Tony's hair from his eyes or drop a kiss on his forehead. Instead, he says, "sleep well," and gives Tony a peculiar smile before walking out.

Tony rolls forwards into the space Steve has just vacated and pulls his blankets around himself, burying his nose into them. Everything smells of Steve.

+

The air feels thick and stuffy around him. Tony can feel the distracting trickle of sweat down the side of his face, the curves of his arms, the length of his back.

He watches Clint carefully as they circle each other, hands held up high. Clint returns his gaze coolly with the eyes he is known for, a predator's eyes. They are sharper than his arrows but just as piercing, alert and hungry for every flicker of movement, every play of light. Tony has yet to fool these eyes and he tries again, feinting with his left hand and coming in heavy with his right.

Clint deflects the first jab, grunts when the second one just misses his nose, and retaliates with an uppercut that has Tony's head tipping backwards. He takes the next punch Clint throws to the solar plexus (that one will bruise, if the sting is any indication) before managing to recover, shoving Clint back with a low growl and raising his arms again. In the back of his mind, Tony can hear Happy saying, "keep your guard up, Tony," and he remembers again with a twist in his stomach just how much he misses boxing with Happy.

He and Clint are well-matched in size and strength, though Clint is a little faster and tires less easily, giving Tony more than enough of a work-out in the boxing ring. Boxing with Clint has somehow become routine, taking up Tony's Thursday evenings. Initially, he had searched Clint out to ask questions about his bow and somehow ended up in the ring instead, trading punches the way he used to with Happy.

They've all seen each other train by now. Tony's lost count of how many times Natasha has taken Clint down and Clint has returned the favour often enough. Their agility turns their matches into a dance of the nimble, each move leading into the next with the fluidity of a perfectly choreographed piece. In contrast, the matches between Steve and Thor are lively and explosive, brute strength pitted against brute strength. If Natasha and Clint are a smooth dance, then Steve and Thor are music set to _presto_ , spiking into crescendos with a furious frequency as they collide against each other with a savage grace and come up laughing like they're having the time of their lives. Tony's eyes always linger on Steve for too long whenever he watches their sparring sessions and it doesn't go unnoticed. Steve eyes him intently afterwards, the Bond whispering between them hints of just what kind of thoughts Tony entertains.

With his mind elsewhere, Tony doesn't see Clint's punch in time to defend against it and it leaves him on the floor, the air knocked out of him. He stares unseeingly up at the ceiling, chest heaving.

"Daydreaming, Stark? About who, I wonder?" Clint asks after spitting out his mouth guard. He's breathing fast but not fast enough if he's able to smirk at the same time.

"I wasn't daydreaming," Tony protests, muffled through his mouth guard but Clint seems to get it anyway.

"Of course you weren't," Clint teases, laughing when Tony glowers at him. "You can admit that you like Steve, you know. It's allowed."

"Everyone likes Steve," Tony says, enunciating slowly and clearly to be understood.

Clint throws a towel and a water bottle at him. "And note, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that that was not a denial."

"Screw you, Barton. Wasn't daydreaming about Steve."

"If it's not Steve," Clint says in a tone that makes sure Tony knows exactly how much he doesn't believe him, "mind telling me what's got you so distracted?"

Tony spits out his mouth guard and drawls lazily, "I ain't distracted."

"One more time, with feeling," Clint says dryly and drinks from his own water bottle. "You gave me too many openings tonight."

"There's a dirty joke in there somewhere. I'll find it. Eventually." Tony pretends to think about it as he sits up, pulling off his gloves and grabbing the towel.

"You're okay, though, right?"

That gives Tony pause. "Yeah. Why?"

Clint shrugs. "Just noticed that you and Steve aren't speaking much to each other recently. Your little fights usually don't last more than a week, this one is hitting nearly two."

"It's nothing, don't worry about it," Tony mutters in between wiping away the sweat on his face and around his neck. Clint doesn't push, but he looks like he'd like to, his eyes narrowing over the rim of his water bottle. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Pretty sure you just did but go on."

"Why did you decide to be Natasha's sub if you could've been someone else's Dom?"

Clint swishes water around in his mouth and swallows. "Why do you ask?"

"You don't need to tell me if you don't want to."

"I didn't say that I wouldn't tell you. I just asked why you want to know."

Tony picks out the right words over several gulps of water. "If I was a switch, I would've stuck to being a Dom. It's easier that way, I think."

"I can see why you'd think that," Clint says, frowning a little as he follows Tony's line of thought. "They give the orders, you follow, and anyone giving the orders, they must be having it easy, right?" Tony nods slowly. "Well, not exactly. Someone giving themselves to you, all that trust in your hands? That's pretty huge. You have to be careful with it. Sometimes, you do the wrong thing and your sub gets hurt and that's on you. That guilt, it makes you feel like utter crap."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Yeah, I am," Clint admits quietly. He sprawls down on the platform. "Anyway, to answer your question, it's Natasha. I trust her and I want to be with her and that's all there is to it, really."

"And you've never had any doubts about submitting?"

"No, that was never the problem with us. How much do you know about Natasha's background?"

"Most of it's classified," Tony says dourly. "But I read enough to get that it wasn't anything nice."

Clint snorts, saying, "you can say that again," before he quickly sobers. "I was the one who brought her into SHIELD. I wasn't meant to, I was meant to take her out and I didn't. The higher-ups weren't very happy with that, but they shut up after a while when it became clear that she wasn't going to stab us in the back. It was around a year after that that I asked her out and she rejected me. Working together is one thing, but outside of that, she didn't understand why I was willing to trust her enough to submit. So much of her life was dark and violent that she didn't trust _herself_ to be a good Domme."

Tony imagines uncertainty on Natasha's face, her lips thinning and her eyes trembling slightly in the face of Clint's honest desire, the clear, blunt lines of professionalism that she operated within blurred suddenly, overstepped. "How did you get over that?"

"It wasn't easy. It took time and hard work and stubbornness. Hell, we still have issues, now. We had to be there for each other first, as teammates, as friends, until we both knew that anything could happen but we'd still be able to trust each other." Clint raises his head to look at him. "Do you trust him, Tony?"

Tony doesn't hesitate. "Yeah, I do."

Clint says, "then you're halfway there," and smiles.

"A few years ago, I read this book," Tony says. " _Physiology and the submissive_. I wanted to understand what made a sub a sub, what it was in our genes because I thought that if I knew that, I could do something. I could make something that would suppress what that gene does." He remembers how enthusiastic he had been at the idea, how he had read extensively on the subject until he could memorize entire books and recite them without a second thought. "I could stop being a sub."

"Last I checked, no one's figured out what gene it is."

Tony laughs bitterly. "I know. I threw the damn book out."

"Why do you hate being a sub so much?"

"Bad experiences, none of which I'd like to think about in detail, thanks."

"Sorry to hear that," Clint says with no pity in his tone. "Have you always felt like this? Even though you've been with so many people? How the hell have you not stopped dating altogether?"

"I did," Tony says. "After Afghanistan," after Obie's death, "Pepper was the only one I dated."

"And she's a sub, too," Clint mutters. "That's—"

"Not important and nothing for you to read into." Tony stands up, his towel swinging around his neck. "Thanks for the workout."

"Not so fast," Clint says, motioning to the gloves and mouth guards. "It's your turn to clean up this week."

Tony makes a face. "I was hoping our charming conversation would've made you forget."

"I don't forget things easily." Clint smirks at him – it's off slightly, not like his usual smirks – as he stands up, too. "Listen, you can think about it all you want, but you know what I've found makes things easier?"

"What?"

"Taking a leap of faith." Clint taps Tony's forehead with a finger, saying, "just think about it," and walks out.

+

"Are you sure you don't want to come along? Do you want me to call you pumpkin pie? Is that what it is? Because I would, Bruce, I really would but Rhodey might get jealous even though he's like a million miles away, he's got this sixth sense thing going on, it's weird. Anyway, are you sure you don't want to come along?"

"Me, too, Tony," Bruce says absentmindedly, still staring into his microscope.

"Not cool, Banner, ignoring me like that. Not cool at all. Does anyone in this place listen to anything I say? I'm going to stick Natasha on you as revenge."

Bruce stirs, blinking wildly behind his glasses like a skittish animal. "What? What was that about Natasha?"

"Nope, that was an once-in-a-lifetime announcement. Should've been listening."

"Is this about the party? I'm still not going, Tony. Parties really aren't my thing," Bruce says with a wan smile. They both know why that's the case. "Besides, someone should be here for when Thor gets back."

"For the record, I hate it when you talk sense."

"Yes, how dreadful that is of me." Bruce checks his watch. "Aren't you late already? The others left about an hour ago. I'm surprised Steve didn't take you with them."

"I was busy. Doing stuff. Important stuff. He knows not to interrupt when I'm busy doing stuff," Tony says flippantly, his phone chiming with yet another text from Pepper. "I better get a move on. I can feel Pepper plotting to squash my balls or something."

"Don't get into any trouble," Bruce says, bending down towards his microscope again as Tony leaves the lab.

"I would never," Tony throws over his shoulder.

His phone shows five more unread texts and three miscalls by the time he gets down to the hall, speeding for most of the journey because he wasn't joking, he really can feel Pepper plotting to squash his balls the longer he takes to get there.

Despite the chilly air, plenty of guests have spilled out of the building and Tony catches flickers of things that might be glasses of champagne or jewellery or camera flashes. He wears the smirk handed down from his father and navigates his way through the crowd to get inside. Half-familiar faces greet him, people he must have seen at the last annual ball, and he falls without thinking into an old game, where more is said by secretive smiles and certain tilts of the body than by words.

"You've got a lot of adoring fans," Natasha says an indeterminate time later, stepping up into the space next to him and smoothly taking him away from his conversation. Her form is clad in an elegant white dress that accentuates her curves, the ends of her gown kissing the ground every time she moves. "I would say try not flirting with everyone but that's your default setting at these things."

"I'm a popular guy," Tony says.

"Are they always that touchy feely?" Clint asks, appearing on Tony's other side, looking impeccable in a silver suit. By the twitches of his hand, he is evidently trying not to pull his black tie loose.

"You get used to it," Tony says, looking Clint up and down. "Well, I guess I can't deny that you clean up well." Clint's hand twitches again, this time definitely from trying not to pull a rude gesture. For Natasha, Tony adds, "and, as always, you look beautiful enough to be _deadly_."

"You haven't seen anything yet," she remarks with a sharp smirk.

"I haven't?"

She shakes her head, exchanging looks with Clint as part of some quiet joke only they know of. "Pepper already knows you're here but you should go talk to her."

"Is she mad?"

"No, she's too used to you to be mad. It wouldn't hurt to get her a drink, though. She's been talking to people ever since she got here."

Tony plucks a glass of wine from a wandering waiter. "Done."

"Just follow the crowd and you'll find her and Steve," Clint says, turning Tony towards the right direction. "Everyone here is already half in love with Captain America."

"I'll bet," Tony says. "Right. I'll go and ply the fair lady with drinks. Don't get caught doing anything naughty, kids."

"Oh, we won't get caught," Natasha says confidently, looping her arm around Clint's. "We're much too good for that."

Tony sees Pepper's violet gown first, her hand delicately placed to keep it from entangling around her feet and her fiery hair cascading down her bare back in ringlets. She's stunning, but it's the man at her elbow who, without warning, makes Tony's heart do something entirely reckless in his chest.

Steve stands out here, too, even amongst the beautiful and the illustrious, devastatingly handsome in his form-fitting three piece suit. He is laughing, open and honest, at something Pepper said, and the sound has everyone gravitating towards him, fluttering around like moths drawn to the brightest thing in the room. Tony drinks from the glass meant for Pepper and heads over, uncaringly pushing people out of the way with his shoulder.

"You both look fantastic," he says, licking the wine away from his lips, keenly aware of Steve's attention falling on his mouth, his chest, his thighs. "Not as great as me, of course, but you're getting there."

A long, manicured finger pokes Tony just above the arc reactor, Pepper saying, "people who are late need to think up of compliments better than that."

"Actually," Tony shakes the half empty glass in his hand, "I was just hoping to get you drunk instead so that you'd forget but some of the champagne appears to be missing. Whoops? Besides, it's only been an hour, Pep. Last time, it was...three."

"I don't think you're helping yourself," Steve says. "I've replaced you as her favourite superhero just by being punctual."

"Lies. I am her One True Superhero. Pepper's responsible for the majority of my fan mail."

"If by majority, you mean not even twelve percent of it," Pepper says, taking the glass and downing the rest of the wine before handing it back over to Tony. Her red lips leave a faint outline on the rim. "Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go to the ladies' room. Tony, stay put."

"Where would I go?" Tony asks, mostly to himself. Steve smiles at him. "You seem to be taking all of this well, Cap."

"It's just a lot of smiling and making polite conversation. If it's for charity and it gets the Avengers good PR, then it's worth making the effort."

Tony feels fingers run across the small of his back and looks over his shoulder at the brunette who winks at him as she goes past. "Yeah, I don't think "polite conversation" is exactly what everyone is looking for tonight."

"Maybe not," Steve says without feeling, his smile growing awkward. "You know, you never talk about your mother. I'm here at a Maria Stark Foundation party but I hardly know anything about her."

"No one really asks about her, anyway. It's usually my dad that everyone likes to talk about." In a strange, selfish way, Tony is almost glad that that's the case. The memories he has of her are one of the few things he likes to keep to himself and call completely his. So many knew his father better than he did, but no one knew his mother better than Tony. Her laughter, her smell, the shawl she draped around him whenever he fell asleep on the couch, they are all a part of his treasures. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Anything you want."

Tony upends the empty glass as he thinks. "She was kind. She believed in helping people. I thought by continuing with the Foundation, I was doing what she wanted, but I wasn't. I mean, not really, not when I was still making weapons."

"But you did do good before," Steve says. "Whatever Stark Industries was doing back then, the Foundation still helped people, didn't it? The bad doesn't cancel out the good that you've done, it just means you have to continue doing good things, that's all."

Tony laughs, not unkindly. "We should have you writing fortune cookies, Cap, share your wisdom with the rest of the world."

"I'm sensing a new lucrative business plan there."

"Of course you are, I came up with it." Tony throws his gaze over the rest of the guests without really taking them in until he is forced to, spotting the approach of an unwelcome face. "You know what," he says to Steve, "I'm thirsty, I'm going to dump this glass somewhere and get myself a drink. Something that's not champagne. Don't go anywhere. I mean it. Stay there. Be right back."

Flashing a forced grin, he takes off towards the bar and settles himself into an easy, relaxed posture, waiting. He doesn't have to wait long.

"Tony!" Greg calls out with false cheer, coming to stand next to Tony. "What a coincidence."

Gregory Miles can't be called a very handsome man but he isn't terrible looking, either. His face is one of those often overlooked, a face so plain and average that, if it wasn't for his arrogance, would be forgotten within a moment.

Tony doesn't bother with looking at his new company and eyes the champagne fountain on the other end of the bar with more interest. "Yes, Greg," he says flatly, "what a coincidence that you see me at a party hosted by the _Maria Stark_ Foundation."

"You don't sound very happy to see me. All I want to do is say hi."

"Wonderful. Well, you've said it." Tony waves a lazy hand carelessly. "Now you can go."

Greg ignores him as he has always ignored anything that he doesn't like. "So, I see you're a superhero now," he says. He pauses and waits for the bartender to place a martini in front of Tony and shuffle off to serve someone else. "Some of us just keep moving up in the world, I guess."

Tony takes a sip of his drink and fixes Greg with a bored look. "Some of us, sure."

"Don't be like that, Tony," Greg says, sickeningly sweet, placing a hand on Tony's knee. It's proprietary, like it had been during that one night they spent together.

Tony flinches as if a raw nerve has been prodded. As he puts it down hastily, the glass of martini in his hand spills some of its contents over his skin. "Don't touch me," he hisses, jerking his knee away and moving out of Greg's reach with little grace. "I've had more than enough of your hands on me."

Greg smirks, triumph written into that hateful curve. "Oh, please. Don't act like you didn't enjoy it. We were both there and we both know you begged for it."

"Shut up," Tony snaps through gritted teeth. There's nothing else he can say, because Greg is right and that, too, is something they both know. Tony thinks he should be used to it by now, this feeling of shame that scorches his face like a cruel blush.

"Tony, there you are," Steve interrupts, suddenly by Tony's side. "You said you'd be right back."

"Sorry, I," Tony looks at Greg, barely concealing a scowl, "I was just catching up with a business associate, but we were just finished now, weren't we?"

"You must be Captain Rogers," Greg states, sliding neatly into a smarmy friendliness. He holds out a hand towards Steve. "Gregory Miles. It's an honour to meet you."

Steve glances down at the offered hand and then takes it in what must be a less than gentle grasp if Greg's wince is anything to go by. Tony can't help his grim satisfaction at that.  Steve lets go after a beat, his smile polite but terribly cold, touched with the ice he spent seventy years in.

"I hope you're keeping this one in line, Captain," Greg continues, hiding his now reddened hand behind him and nodding at Tony. "He can be a handful, but it's worth putting him in his place. I've found it to be...very rewarding."

While he is stocky, Greg isn't a tall man and he seems much smaller when Steve steps forwards into his space. "I don't think that's any of your business, do you, Mr. Miles," Steve says, voice pitched low, unnervingly serene. In it, Tony hears a prelude to something darker and dangerous. "If you ask me, Tony isn't the one who needs to be put into his place."

Provoking a Dom is one thing, provoking a Bonded Dom is something else entirely. Tony's read the stories; he knows it's not pleasant. "Go," he says before the situation can escalate. "You're going to make things worse for yourself, so just go."

Stubbornness tightens the lines around Greg's eyes and mouth. "You don't get to order me around, Tony."

"Actually, I do get to order you around, since this is a party hosted by the Foundation. Get out before I have you thrown out."

"I think Tony's made himself very clear," Steve says. "You should go. Now."

Greg's attention snaps back to Steve and he withers under whatever it is he sees there. "I meant no offense, Captain."

"I'm sure you believe that," Steve replies curtly, staring until the unrelenting weight of his gaze forces Greg turn to leave. "Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Miles." Greg hesitates, turning his head but not quite looking at Steve. "Please don't touch him again." Greg nods and becomes lost behind swirling dresses.  

"Steve," Tony says, placating, and Steve turns back to him with a fierce focus. 

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. You can drop the alpha male act now." Steve looks like he wants to object – to which part, Tony isn't sure. "What are the chances of you not having overhead anything?"

"Nonexistent. You weren't being as subtle as you think you were."

"I should get a gold star for trying, at least," Tony says, grimacing at the stickiness of the dried martini on his hand.

"We can go home, if you want. I can tell Pepper –"

"No, don't tell Pepper anything, she'll worry for no reason."

Tony leaves Steve to go to the bathroom and wash his hands, staring at the face in the mirror after he's done. He smiles at it a smile he perfected long ago, fashioned it into something beautiful and carved it empty of any true feeling. It smiles back just as hollow.

Steve is waiting outside and he frowns at Tony when he sees the smile, just as Tony knew he would. He feels like telling Steve that he hates it, too, but what comes out is, "the show must go on, Steve."

They linger for another three hours, Steve staying closer to Tony than his own shadow. Tony doesn't argue against it, knowing that he'll lose this one, and simply shrugs when Pepper quirks an eyebrow at Steve's lack of smiles.

Natasha and Clint leave first, murmuring something to Steve beforehand. Tony watches them go and says, "I've given you four hours of my life. Am I free to go home now or will I face the wrath of your stilettos?"

"I think you're safe for tonight," Pepper replies lightly. "Go on. I'm planning on leaving soon with Happy, anyway."

"Good night, Pepper," Steve says.

"If she's spending it with Happy, it _will_ be," Tony stage-whispers loudly to Steve, winking at Pepper.

"Remember what you just said about the wrath of my stilettos?"

Tony hurriedly pulls Steve away to make their escape. "Hey, I think I hear my car calling us."

"Good night, you two," Pepper says, her soft, melodic laughter following them out into the sharp night air.

It's only when they're in the car that Tony lets his smile drop.

Plaintively, Steve says, "you're like a play all by yourself, always changing characters, sad and then happy and then sad again."

"Do you think I'm good enough to win any awards?" Tony asks, because he doesn't know what else to say to that. Steve looks away without answering.

Tony drives slowly, taking the longer route back to the Tower, and halfway through it begins to rain. Steve is silent and contemplative in the passenger seat, his face angled towards the window that's partly spattered with fat beads of water. Several times, Tony almost asks about what has Steve thinking so hard, but he suspects he already knows the answer to that question and chooses not to disturb the strange mood fallen over them.

In the garage, he kills the engine and it leaves behind the dismal patter of rainfall, a muted sound like a channel left on low volume. Steve doesn't get out of the car, so Tony doesn't, either. He looks downwards at his hand laying limp in his lap, thinking that he can still feel the stickiness from the martini, Greg's fingers squeezing his knee in some mockery of comfort or friendliness.

"He's gone," Steve says, just like that, as if Tony's thoughts are teasing butterflies that hide from everyone else and reveal themselves only to him.

"I know." Tony breathes out loudly through his nose and gets out of the car. "Come on, Cap, it's your lucky day," he says, not daring to look back as he walks into the Tower. It's now or never. "You get to know my sordid, little secret tonight."

He has JARVIS keep the lights of the penthouse suite turned off, the moonlight pouring in through the window enough to guide him through the room. Tony gets rid of his cufflinks first, then his tie and jacket, pieces of the armour he wears outside of the Iron Man suit, dropping them all carelessly on the table before pouring himself a drink at the bar.

"Here," he rasps through the burn in his throat, when Steve sits down on the stool next to him, pushing another glass across the bar top. "You're going to need it."

Steve cups his drink with both hands. His face is carefully blank, unreadable in the way trained men are.

Tony clears his throat. "So what do you already know about Obie, exactly?"

"Close family friend, company manager of Stark Industries, Iron Monger." Steve looks down at the arc reactor, the cold light casting strange shadows on his face, and everything left unsaid is in that glance.  

Tony almost laughs at the summary but stops himself at the last minute, drowning the near laugh in his scotch. "Yeah, that's most of it. But if I had to narrow it down, I'd say that it began when I was twenty four." He hears how his voice comes out aloof, as if the words don't pertain to him and he is merely recounting something that happened to someone else. This is the only way he can do this. "I was tired and angry that I still had to prove I could carry on my father's work and most of the board members were pissing me off again. They didn't really appreciate their CEO being a sub and they didn't exactly hide it. So, I went to Obie one night."

Obie had taken one look at Tony leaning listlessly against the doorjamb and known what to do. At the time, Tony hadn't given it much thought, but after Obie's death, when he was trying to figure out if there had been any truth in his relationship with Obie at all, he wondered if Obie had expected him to come to him, if, even back then, it was part of Obie's plans for him.

"We didn't sleep together, but he took care of me and he did the same again and again and again, every time I went to him, every time I needed to let go for a little while. It wasn't a regular thing at first. I still had a lot of one night stands, no serious relationships. If I was going to commit to anyone, it would have to be someone I trusted completely, someone like Obie. So, it seemed only right that we should at least try a relationship."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"We didn't want the board thinking that Obie was using a relationship to influence me. That would threaten all the other board members and put me in an even worse position, so we kept it quiet. But that meant that I couldn't suddenly stop dating because there'd be questions. Obie didn't mind, he said it was alright for me to be with others. It was to keep our relationship safe. I didn't want to give up what we had, not when I needed it so much, and by then, I would have done anything he told me, really."

"You were in love with him," Steve says, words carefully measured.

Tony shakes his head. "No, I was never in love with Obie, but I did love him. And I didn't want to be alone. I didn't have Pepper back then and Rhodey was busy in the Air Force. Maybe if he hadn't been, maybe if it was him – I told Rhodey about Obie because he was my best friend and Pepper, too, after I knew I could trust her. Happy was always driving me around, so he realised all on his own. What we had was good for a while. It was really good. I was happy. Who cares if not many people knew that I had someone? So long as I actually _did_."

"Where did it go wrong?"

"Obie was always pushing me to come up with new ideas for weapons. I was improving what we already had, but he became annoyed because I wasn't making anything...ground-breaking, I guess. Suddenly, I was keeping him waiting too long or not kneeling fast enough and I needed to be punished."

For the first time since he began talking, Tony's composure cracks. He tightens his fingers around his empty glass at the remembered sting of bruises being pressed into his skin with ugly intent. Obie always humiliated him in those moments, crooning just enough cruelty to cut Tony deeper than any lash of a whip could ever do and leave him still bleeding long after the blood has been wiped away from his body.

"Tony," Steve says, but he doesn't try to touch him and Tony is grateful for that.

Tony's eyes burn, but there are no tears. Not anymore, at least. "One day, he suddenly started suggesting names, people that worked for companies Stark Industries could benefit from."

Steve says, "like Gregory Miles," and there's a whisper of the dull, throbbing anger that Steve has been keeping tamped down ever since they left the party.

"Like Gregory Miles. He wanted me to spend the night with them, please them, and I wanted to please him. I wanted to be good for him. No one believed that I could be a good sub, they thought that I didn't want to be. And if he was okay with it, if he wanted me to go with these people, I didn't exactly mind. So, you see, I lied to you. I let you believe that I didn't want this Bond because I enjoyed sleeping around and wanted to keep my reputation. But that _reputation_ ," he sneers, "comes more from trying to give Obie what he wanted than anything else."

"I know you were lying. I figured it out afterwards."

"How?"

"You haven't been with anyone ever since you and Pepper split up. I haven't seen you bring anyone home at all and it's been months since I moved in."

"You would notice, wouldn't you," Tony says. "Some of them knew. I think Obie approached some of them and made a deal beforehand. But some of them, like Greg, didn't. There was a rule. I wasn't meant to let them fuck me. But sometimes, I forgot, sometimes I was too far gone, and I let them and when he found out, well, he wasn't very happy about that." He smiles humourlessly, seeing Obie's face contorted in rage at the bottom of his glass.

"More punishments," Steve infers grimly.

"I think I hated the hot wax most of all. That one went on for longer than I could bear, even though I used my safeword. He didn't seem to hear it at first. If he did, he ignored it, but then I – I think I shouted," screamed, really, a terrible noise that tore out of his throat without his permission, "and he stopped."

A second later, there is the sharp shatter of glass and Tony startles. A small pool of scotch slowly spreads across the bar top, dark and insidious like old blood, Steve's hand curling into a tight fist despite the broken pieces still held in the circle of his fingers.

"He should have never been allowed near you," Steve says roughly, like there's glass embedded in his throat rather than in his hand.

Tony stares, bewildered, before he tugs at Steve's hand several times to open the fist and holds it open. "You're bleeding," he says, examining the little cuts with a frown. "Doesn't look like the cuts are very deep, at least."

"They'll heal."

"Not with glass still in there. Keep your hand open, I'm going to grab tweezers. Jesus, Rogers, I'm baring my soul here and you're suddenly trying to get me to play nurse for you?"

"Sorry," Steve says, lacking inflection. What he's actually apologising for, Tony isn't sure.

With JARVIS' help, Tony locates and returns with tweezers, muttering unhappily, but when he takes Steve's hand in his, he does it gently. The light from his arc reactor illuminates Steve's palm in blue, the small pieces of glass trapped in the skin glinting. Tony sets to work silently with the same concentration he pays to the delicate work he does down in the workshop, piecing together fine wires and soldering joints. Steve watches him fixedly as if Tony is a dream he is scared of losing and the silence swells around them like a heavy wave.

"Why did you never leave?" Steve asks after Tony has placed the second shard onto the bar top. He doesn't seem to feel any pain or discomfort. "You were together for—"

"Thirteen years."

"—thirteen years," Steve repeats, sounding agonized. "That long and you didn't leave. Why?"

Tony carefully takes out another piece. Already the cuts free of glass are fading to a silken pink. "I thought that it was something I was doing wrong that made Obie change and I had to fix it. I'm an engineer, Steve, I'm a little obsessed with fixing things if you haven't noticed. Only this time, I was the problem and Obie wasn't willing anymore to tell me, to lie to me and tell me that I wasn't. But all I was doing was trying to fix something that was already broken beyond repair."

"Someone must've realised something. Asked questions. Someone had to have seen what he was doing."

"You never did answer my question before. Do I deserve any awards for my acting?"

"This isn't funny, Tony."

"I know, I'm not laughing." Steve's hand twitches like it wants to close just to spite him and Tony has to force it to stay open. "Hold on, I'm nearly finished. I never told Pepper, Rhodey, or Happy the whole truth. I couldn't bear that, them knowing just how fucked up things had gotten."

"JARVIS. JARVIS would've known. He could've done something...unless you made sure he couldn't."

"Obie made sure I made sure he couldn't." Tony pulls out the last piece of glass and puts the tweezers down, watching the remaining cuts in Steve's hand change into thin lines. In a few minutes, even those will vanish. "Do you know how disgusting I feel every time I think about just how much I let him get away with? God, I was so fucking stupid. I should've ended it years ago, but I never did. I thought – I thought if I was good enough, everything would go back to being the way it was, everything would be fine." With a tinge of desperation he can't hold back, Tony says, "I tried, Steve, I tried _so hard_ to be good."

"I believe you," Steve says, bringing his other hand up, clasping Tony's hand in between his. "You trusted him and he took advantage of that. It was his fault, not yours."

"After I came back from Afghanistan, he changed again, became nicer, maybe to stop me from getting suspicious, I don't know, but I was relieved because this meant that things could go back to the way they were. It was only the arc reactor he was interested in, though. I finally made something ground-breaking."

"He was blind. If that's all he saw when he looked at you, then he was blind and stupid and he didn't deserve you."

Tony swallows and says wretchedly, "I know it's stupid but I felt guilty afterwards for killing him. My own Dom and I killed him."

"Tony, it was _self defence_ ," Steve says, hushed in his disbelief, eyes lit up so bright by the arc reactor, blue summer skies at their most violent. "He tried to kill you first and he hurt you for years before that."

Tony wants to lean forwards and rest his forehead against Steve's shoulder, so he does and he breathes easier for it. He feels heavy and light at the same time, feels relief at entombed pain being entombed no longer. Steve knows, now, and there is no more need to hide.

"You wanted me gone," Steve murmurs hoarsely, mouth right next to Tony's ear, "because you thought that I would be like him, that I would use you and hurt you and do – all those terrible things that he did to you. Tell me you don't think that of me anymore."

"I don't," Tony is quick to say, sitting up straight again to quell Steve's horror. His hand is still trapped in between both of Steve's and it feels hot and sweaty but he only presses his fingers against Steve's palm some more. "I don't think that at all. I didn't know you back then. All I knew was that you were another Dom and that you had – have – more power over me because you're my Bonded."

"I would never force you into something you didn't want to do. I could never."

"I know. You're not him. You'll never be him."

Steve, who doesn't want to be a perfect soldier but a good man, whose face still directs a soft look of wonder at Tony when he thinks no one is looking, who just might be the best thing that Tony's ever touched. No, Steve isn't Obie and won't ever be.  

Steve guides Tony's head back down onto his shoulder again, untangling one hand to slip an arm around him. Tony knows he's not imagining the lips brushing against the top of his head, a kiss barely there, and his eyelashes flutter in response, leaving a kiss of their own against Steve's throat.

"What happens now? I've told you, so what happens now? What do you want?"

"I want to try," Steve says. "I know we said we'd just be friends, but you feel it too, don't you? How we've changed?"

"I do," Tony says, giving up any pretence. "But what do you think you'll do? Heal me with the power of your love? That's not how it works, Steve."

"I know that. I just want to try, that's all. I want you to be happy, Tony. I want the chance to make you happy. I won't let him ruin that for you, he's ruined too much already. You decide when."

"I'm surprised you haven't left already, since all I do is make you wait."

Steve's arm tightens around him. "I've found the right partner and I'm not going to turn my back on him," he says, adding with quiet conviction, "we can do this together."

It sounds like a reassurance, a promise writ in stone, sinking right into Tony's skin and down into his bones.

"I'm not cleaning up the drink you spilled," Tony says and it forces out a laugh from both of them, sharp, rough sounds that almost hurt but feel good anyway.

Outside, the rain disappears as quietly as it came.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get the next chapter up quicker than the last one, I said. I'll be fine, I said. Let's all take a moment to laugh at my foolishness. A lovely pile of coursework and my internet at home deciding to die two weeks ago mainly kept me from updating, but I've dealt with all of that now. As always, thanks so much for waiting! I feel like I have to apologise for the second half of the chapter because I'm horrendous at writing action scenes (which is awesome, considering I'm in a fandom that has _superheroes_ ) and I've re-read that part so many times now and still cringe at it. So, yeah, just ignore how much I fail at that and enjoy the chapter!
> 
> EDIT: also, if the chapter has suddenly gone missing for some of you, it's most likely because I had some issues with the editing/posting of the chapter.

With one arm braced against the glass above his head, Tony stares out of the window and up at the dirty dishwater sky. Only big, sulky clouds are in sight, no hint of sunshine whatsoever, and he feels himself grow more miserable. His hair is still wet from the rain that stopped just before they arrived at the cafe, the tips curling, and his ink-stained fingers are burning around the cup of coffee in his hand, but after all these years, it just feels like nothing more than an itch.

In the background, Bruce says, "wasn't that the song Steve was listening to a few weeks ago?"

Tony sinks into his seat, wondering what Bruce is talking about, who he's talking to. Steve listens to many songs; Bruce could be referring to anything. Some days, that's all they do together, just listen to songs and become pendulums shifting back and forth through different eras in time – a swing to the right and it's Tony's thundering basses and guitar solos, a swing to the left and it's Steve's smoky Jazz and silvery voices.

"Tony?" Thor says from beside him.

Tony drags his attention back to their small table in the corner. It's half littered with napkins he's been sketching diagrams on. "Yeah?"

"You were just humming 'The Way You Look Tonight'," Bruce says from across the table. He's working diligently through the crossword that Henry started but couldn't finish, a half empty plate of pie next to him.

Tony hadn't realised he was humming. "Blame it on Steve."

"You are deep in thought," Thor says. "I fear this is a cause of concern."

"Yeah, you better watch yourself, big guy, sleep with one eye open, lock the doors, station Clint in the vents, but it won't matter because JARVIS will be watching and I'll be in the basement, plotting away."

Thor nods and smiles like Tony is a particularly amusing pet, returning to his own hearty helping of pie. "I've noticed Steven is troubled," he says as Tony begins to lament the days before Norse gods and super soldiers, the days when he could still intimidate others with solely his presence. "We sparred yesterday and it seemed that he was fighting as if to settle a deep anger. I asked, but he did not wish to share his troubles and I refrained from asking any further."

"I've noticed that, too," Bruce says. "He's been a bit strange recently." He looks at Tony over the top of his glasses, pausing in the middle of scribbling something down. "Do you have any idea what it's about?"

"I do," Tony replies, stealing a piece of Thor's pie with his fingers and downing it with a large gulp of his coffee. It's a kind of helplessness that has Steve agitated, because it's only been a few days since Tony told him about Obie and those words are still bright and fresh in Steve's mind, stirring protective anger. "You don't need to worry, it'll sort itself out."

"I hope all is well between the two of you," Thor murmurs.

"It doesn't have something to do with _us_ , exactly. He's just clearing his head." 

"It has to do with that guy from the party, doesn't it," Bruce says. "The one you and Steve argued with."

Tony rolls his eyes. "The Twin Terrors told you, didn't they?"

"This is the first I've heard of it," Thor says, turning towards Tony for details, and Tony sees the Asgardian prince in him, the royal heir that can demand answers with a single look.

"It's nothing to get all frowny about. I get into arguments all the time, it was just another asshole in a long line of assholes. Look," Tony says heavily, instilling his voice with a sense of finality. "I'll talk to Steve and tell him to ease up a little, alright? I've been meaning to, anyway."

Bruce nods slowly. He pushes his plate forward for Thor to finish and points at a row of empty boxes with his pen. "High Royal Air Force rank, three letters, then four, hyphen, seven."

"Air vice-marshal," Tony says almost instantly. "Have you told Henry that you're leaving for a while? We're not getting any sad puppy eyes this way, so I'm guessing you haven't." Bruce glowers at him. "Don't worry, we're here to provide moral support for when you get around to it. Well, I'm here for the coffee, but Thor's here for the moral support. Actually, I think Thor's here for the pie. Let's just pretend we're here for moral support."

"I hate you. Have I told you how much I hate you?"

Thor says, "do not be embarrassed—"

"Yeah, Bruce, don't be embarrassed."

"—we are all friends here. Why else did you bring us here one last time if not to say goodbye to young Henry?"

"Thor, you _do_ know that there's actually nothing going on, right? That it's just Tony messing around?"

"I'm fully aware of Tony's jests," Thor says, grinning at Bruce's despairing groan.

"He just enjoys trolling everyone, don't you, Thor? He's been doing it for a few thousand years, we're all noobs compared to him. Fist bump, buddy." Tony holds up his fist and knocks it lightly against Thor's ridiculously large one. "You better be bringing us back some souvenirs. Globes, key rings, a bust of me, you know, that sort of thing."

"The last thing I'm going to bring back is a bust of you. You'll put it on the lobby of the Tower and order everyone who enters to pay their respects to it before they can go any further."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Bruce sighs, capping his pen and standing up. "I'll go and pay, shall I?"

"Yeah, we'll wait outside while you do that. Don't take too long, will you?" Tony says, smirking and swiftly dodging when Bruce throws the pen at him. "He's so cruel to me, Thor. This is why you're my favourite, you'd never throw things at me and no, our first meeting doesn't count."

Thor slings an arm over his shoulders and Tony doesn't walk out of the cafe so much as he is hauled out of it. The backseat of the car is a little cramped for Thor but he fits in after some uncomfortable squirming around.

Tony flicks the speakers on, Juxebox The Ghost pouring out. "What do you think they're saying?" he asks, gesturing towards Bruce and Henry with his head.

Thor shrugs. "It is a shame that Bruce is so reluctant to seek out companionship for himself."

"That it is. He already has someone, actually, but he wants to keep her safe so he doesn't go to see her."

"There is no way to reunite them?"

"Every time I've brought it up, he's made it clear that he doesn't want that happening. I mean, I'm not exactly the poster boy for listening to others, but this is important to him so I've been leaving it alone. Maybe we should stick Steve on it. Get him to use those big, blue eyes. No one can say no to those without feeling like they've crushed the dreams of all the children in the country."

"Oh, aye," Thor says, nodding fervently. "That is one of Steven's more powerful abilities, no matter how much he denies it."

"Verily," Tony says.

"What are you smirking about?" Bruce asks Tony when he climbs into the car with a bag of takeaway in his hand.

"It's a free country, a man can smirk if he wants to and this man wants to. Is that pie for the rest of the Scooby Gang?"

"I'm not cooking dinner tonight and this is the next best thing."

That Tony can't argue with.

During the drive home, Thor makes an impressive effort at trying to sing along with Tony's playlist and Tony introduces him the noble tradition of head-banging. Bruce ignores them both, claiming it's for the sake of his sanity, but Tony sees him bobbing his head gently along to the music anyway. At the Tower, Thor is quick to propose a final game of chess, Bruce is just as quick to accept, and Tony isn't fooled. They'd be much more subtle about it if they were to push Tony into the lift and send him to Steve.

No time like the present, Tony supposes. "He's in the gym, isn't he, JARVIS?"

"He is."

"How long has he been there?"

"One hour and thirteen minutes."

Tony sighs. On Steve's floor, the sound of dull thuds leads him to the gym, where he stands at the doorway with his cold fingers shoved into his pockets and watches. Steve walks around like a tamed animal, his strength firmly leashed, but that self control is in tatters now, each of his blows far too harsh and far too fast. Tony is caught somewhere in the middle of being riveted and concerned.

"Are you planning on giving the punching bag a break anytime this year?" he asks, when Steve shows no sign of slowing down.

"Back so soon?" Steve grunts out in between punches.

"Does that mean you didn't miss me? Now _I_ feel like taking it up with a punching bag." Tony edges closer until he can see the flush high up on Steve's face and smell the sweat that's slicking his skin."The others are wondering what's up with you, you know."

"I won't tell them anything. I know you don't want me to."

"That's not what I'm thinking about."

"I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me."

"Then, why are you still here?"

"I just wish," Steve says, a little harsh, a little desperate, punches faltering before picking up again, "I just wish that they could have found me sooner."

"I hate to admit it," Tony says, "but I wouldn't be the guy I am now if it hadn't been for what Obie did. Iron Man wouldn't exist and Tony Stark would've just gone on destroying lives without knowing it. And even if they had found you sooner, I'd still be damaged goods."

" _No_." Steve grits his teeth, putting more force into his next blow. If the punching bag hadn't been reinforced, it would've flown backwards, rupturing like an artery. He pins Tony down with fierce eyes. "You are not damaged goods, Tony. _That_ is why I wish they'd found me sooner, so that he couldn't make you think that you were, so that you didn't have to wait so long. I know it's irrational. He's dead and he can't do anything to you again and there's no point in getting angry over something I can't change. I know that."

"Because all of us do the rational thing all of the time, anyway," Tony says, his voice gentle in a way he thought impossible for him. "I think I'm touched, actually. Not every day that Captain America gets angry on your behalf. But call it a day now and come upstairs. We brought some pie back for dinner. Thor can't get enough of it, it's one of Midgard's finest delicacies, he says."

Steve doesn't quite smile, but he doesn't look so tense either. Slowly, he begins loosening the bandages wrapped around his hands and by the time he's finished, the tautened lines of his body are almost relaxed. Tony swipes away the hair sticking to Steve's forehead without giving it much thought and Steve holds his hand hostage, presses his cheek into it and sighs softly as if something has been soothed. "You're cold. It feels nice."

Tony grins, because this is the part where he talks about something inane until Steve's too distracted to think about anything gloomy. This is the part he's very good at. "And you're hot. Rearrange us and we're a Katy Perry song, which, by the way, Clint is a fan of. I know, I couldn't believe the horror of it all when I found out, either."

Steve cracks a smile in spite of himself. "That doesn't really mean much considering the noise you like to listen to."

"You mean the "noise" that you _willingly_ listen to in my workshop? I'll have you know that Thor knows the lyrics to some of that "noise" and he likes it just fine. I even got him into head-banging."

"Please tell me you took a video of that. A picture, at least."

"I didn't, but even if I had, I wouldn't let you see it after denouncing my music like that," Tony says. "I should revoke all your privileges, keep you ten feet away from me at all times."

"I'll charm JARVIS into helping me get my way around that."

"It'll take more than batting your eyelashes at him to charm JARVIS into doing anything."

"JARVIS really likes my eyelashes. I think it'll be enough."

"Are you suggesting that my AI is _easy_? How dare you."

"I dare a lot of things," Steve says with a small smirk.

Tony snorts. "Can I at least get my hand back? It's not a teddy bear and I kind of need it." Steve just raises an eyebrow at him. "Or maybe not. Go ahead, keep my hand, it's all yours."

"Just your hand?" Steve asks, looking at him intently, and just like that, there's a change in the air around them, a shift into something heavier. It's surprising enough to throw Tony off.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks when words are things he is capable of again. This wasn't what he was thinking of when he thought to distract Steve. "Don't look at me like that."

Steve turns his head to the side a little, his mouth moving against Tony's palm, "like what?"

"Like _that_ ," Tony says, unable to stop himself from answering. "Like you're hungry for something. It makes me—" hyperaware of their proximity, of Steve's body outlined so clearly by his damp, clingy clothes, of the sweat that beads his skin, sweat that could just as easily come from a different sort of exertion, "—want to—"

"What does it make you want to do?" Steve asks, low and sultry. "Tell me, Tony. What does it make you want to do?"

Tony slides his hand down towards the strong jaw, turns it into a cradle for Steve's face, his thumb grazing over Steve's lips. They're cotton soft and full, the colour of ripe berries, and he wants to know what they taste like, wants to kiss Steve more than he's ever wanted to kiss anyone else. He leans up, mouth slightly open, anticipating, craving. Steve bends his head, curling his hand around Tony's hip in a way that suggests nothing could pry him away.

"Incoming call from Agent Romanov, sir," JARVIS says, sounding rueful, and it breaks the spell.

Tony takes his hand back, stepping away, and Steve straightens himself with reluctance.

"Let it through," Tony says.

Briskly, Natasha says, "Tony, suit up and get over to 79th. We have a situation. Quinjet's coming to pick Steve, Bruce, and Thor up in five."

"Got it," Tony says and Natasha ends the call immediately. He and Steve head towards the door at the same time. "I'm going to go and get into the armour," he says needlessly.

"We'll see you over there," Steve says, pure soldier now.  

Tony nods and runs off towards the lift. It feels like his arc reactor is working harder than usual.

+

The situation turns out to be a small army of androids that have the fire power of tanks and are apparently hell bent on reducing Manhattan to dust.

Lights are on but nobody's home, Tony thinks, looking at the blank expression all the androids share. It's night-time now and the lean, efficient lines of their body gleam in the moonlight with an unnatural shine. Tony watches carefully, but there doesn't seem to be a particular android in command. "The evil mastermind is controlling them from his or her lair super secret lair, watching and most likely cackling away in a very 'Dexter's Lab' fashion."

"There's more than one evil mastermind and they're called AIM," Natasha says.

"Great. Always a demand for more evil masterminds. They make the world go round." Adrenaline surges through him in time to the hum of his arc reactor; he takes out two androids with a single repulsor blast and then twists around to shoot at the three tailing Natasha. "Can we make this a competition? I vote we make this a competition."

"I vote we don't," Steve says as he guides a crowd of civilians out of an office building. His shield hurtles across the street and suddenly, three androids are headless and a fourth is meeting Steve's fist. "Thor, on your six."

"You would've lost anyway," Clint says from the rooftop he's perched on. "Widow and me were on the scene before you, we're up by, like, twenty at least. Area's all clear of civilians, Cap."

"Still leaves fifty for me, Robin Hood. Need a lift, Widow? Pretty girl like you, I can give a discount."

"You're too kind," Natasha purrs, Tony catching her smoothly in mid-jump. There's a cut on her forehead as red as her hair. "Over there, next to the deli. I'm thinking of paying you in sandwiches."

"Sure, a guy could always eat."

"Chatter," Steve says. He takes a shot to the arm from one of the energy guns mounted into each android's arms, the only indication a grunt that is just about audible on the comms. It's not that Tony feels the pain of the blast exactly, but he feels _something_ , a ghost of a sensation. Steve tackles the android responsible, bringing his shield down hard onto its face. The Hulk roars from behind Steve, a huge gouge carved out in the street after he smashes a handful of androids against it, and his face stretches into a wild grin. Steve grins back. "Nice going, big guy."

Thor laughs and the sky echoes his laughter in a thunderous rumble, lightning slashing across the clouds like glowing knives. Hefty swipes of his hammer send metal limbs scattering across gravel. "I have missed our green friend and his enthusiasm."

"I bet you have," Tony mutters, glancing once more in Steve's direction before turning his attention to providing cover for Natasha. "Long lost brothers, those two." He looks unhappily at the cars on fire, the shattered glass and half standing buildings. "The money for all the damages is going to get taken out of my ass, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Natasha replies. "You think SHIELD's going to pay?"

"You bunch of gold diggers. Fury's not expecting me to buy him an eye one day, is he?"

"I think it's safe to say that he's not counting on it."

The androids are surprisingly resolute and Tony is in the middle of thinking that it should be easier than this, should take them less time to deal with the androids, when he's suddenly blinded by bright beams, the HUD flashing under the assault of multiple energy blasts. "Holy fucking shit, who turned the lights up too high."

Steve barks out, "Iron Man, status!"

"A little help," he shouts back, faltering in mid-air under the weight of the two androids that vault onto him at the same time. "Jesus, what do these things eat? They weigh a fucking tonne."

"You're the tech expert here," Steve says, yanking hard at one of the clinging androids, silencing it with his shield. Tony takes the first shot he can at the second one, watching with satisfaction as it flies back from a repulsor blast to the face and lands with its limbs sprawled.

"Thanks," he says. He can already feel the bruises on his face, the twinge in his shoulder. Something tells him Steve can, too.

"Later," Steve says. "We'll talk later."

"Only a few left, guys," Clint says. "Also, Thor? Get up here, man, I'm outta arrows and I think I'm getting checked out by some of these androids. It's not leaving me feeling sexy, though."

"These last ones are getting more and more erratic," Natasha says, chasing an android into a nearby building. "I think they're malfunctioning."

"That's what you get for sending out shitty prototypes," Tony mumbles, trying not to get distracted by the Hulk quite delightedly banging in an android's head over and over again against the pavement. The remaining androids are aiming freely now, like they're unable to stop long enough to target anything specific, and Tony evades as much of it as he can, but the armour still takes plenty of hits. Beyond the blaze of fire and smoke and the whine of twisting metal, he just about notices the SHIELD agents appearing on the scene. "Late to the party and not even fashionably."

"Giving agents all around a bad rep," Clint says, on ground level now, darting around burning cars and picking up his arrows one by one. "Cap, when we finish this gig, you gonna let us stay up past bedtime as a reward?"

"Make it through clean up and we'll see. Widow, I don't see you. Where are you?"

"The building has begun to collapse," Thor says abruptly. "She must still be inside."

"Where," Tony demands the same time Clint mutters, "shit," all traces of amusement gone.

"It's aiming everywhere but hitting the pillars the most," Natasha hisses back. "I can't get close enough—"

The closest to Natasha, Steve moves first. "I'm going in. Everyone else, stay outside and take down the rest of them."

"Cap," Tony starts.

"Stay outside, Iron Man," Steve commands, vanishing inside the shuddering building.

Tony clenches metal fists, crumples the reflex to argue against that order within them. "Just hurry," he says, thrusters flaring and propelling himself towards his next target. Latching onto his insides is an odd feeling, something akin to the sharp sensation of falling in a dream, his stomach sinking and everything horribly weightless, only there isn't a rough jerk to bring him back to reality. Clint stares intently at the building and the SHIELD agents scurry around, shouting something that Tony doesn't care for.

"Sir," JARVIS says, sharp and urgent, his shit-has-hit-the-fan voice, and Tony tenses instinctively. "I've detected four activated self-destruct mechanisms."

" _What?_ Fuck, guys, these last ones are going to self destruct! Get away from them!"

Four self-destruct mechanisms, four androids, one next to Thor, another honing onto Clint, the third closest to him, and – his throat tightens – the fourth inside a collapsing building with Steve and Natasha. They'll escape in time, he knows, they will because they have to.

Tony is quick, but the explosion from the android behind him still rocks him and throws him several feet away. The bruises bloom and run like painful vines across his back. It takes several gasps to get the air back into his lungs. "I'm gonna feel that in the morning, aren't I."

"You're feeling it now," JARVIS says. Tony blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of the flickering HUD displaying his vitals. "You were mostly out of the blast radius and there are no major injuries to the spinal cord. I would suggest you move slowly regardless."

Tony forces himself to sit up first and then struggles onto his feet, his armour and his muscles groaning in tandem. He sways on the spot; everything looks skewed, like that drawing of Venice Steve once showed him where all the lines were slanting, the city seemingly tipping off the page. His next blink brings everything to right and he sees Thor on one knee, scorch marks on his armour, cape singed. The Hulk is almost hunched into a green ball, not from pain, but from protecting – his humongous arms almost fully conceal the sprout of blond hair and hints of a black uniform, but Tony would recognise Clint anywhere.

"Steve," Tony forces out. "Natasha, Steve, where are they, where?"

"Behind the Hulk, Tony," Steve murmurs and Tony's relief is overwhelming enough that he almost lets himself drop back onto the ground under the weight of it. "I know, I feel the same. Now get yourself over here."

"Roger that, Captain," Tony says, clanging his way over.

At the sound of Steve's voice, the Hulk seems to decide that it's safe to let Clint go and Clint gets there before Tony, yelling, "can we get some medics over here?"

Steve and Natasha are lying on the ground, only a small section of the building they were in still stubbornly standing. Tony falls down to his knees beside Steve, pulling his helmet off and dropping it to the side. He places a hand over the white star, murmuring, "hey, soldier," and drawing in every rise and fall of Steve's chest for the wordless reassurances they are.

"Hey," Steve says, a little gruff. "I cracked a few ribs, I think, and there's dust in my mouth." His finger hovers over a bruise on the side of Tony's face. "You – you're okay? Natasha? And everyone else?"

"Clint and me are good, Steve," Natasha says, standing up and leaning against Clint. There are scrapes on her face, too, and cuts peppered up and down her arms. "Not going to win any fashion competitions anytime soon, but that's alright."

"Bruce has yet to return to himself," Thor adds. "But we are well, too. We will heal."

"I'm getting too old for this," Tony says. "My back is probably going to give out and I can feel how messed up my face looks."

"You're beautiful," Steve says, pushing himself up into a sitting position with a small hiss.

"Of course you'd say that, you banged your head against the ground." Tony's metal fingers feel clumsy as they scrabble at Steve's cowl, trying to get it off. "Whose clever idea was it to give you a cowl when it's so hard to take it off?"

"Don't knock the uniform. You're dressed in a tin can."

"Hey, I thought I was beautiful a second ago."

"I banged my head against the ground, so apparently that doesn't count." Steve gives him a lopsided smile, his hair sticking up now that the cowl is off, and Tony touches the face covered with dirt and sweat, thinking, no, you're wrong, I'm not the one who's beautiful.

He moves away for the medics that rush over, picking up his helmet and Steve's cowl in one hand when they're pointed towards one of the SHIELD medical vans that'll take them all to the infirmary. The open doors show Thor with a much smaller Bruce falling asleep on his arm and Clint and Natasha periodically knocking their legs against each other's. Tony helps Steve get to his feet and with arms flung around each other for support, they amble towards the van, slowly like two men caught in a storm, slowly like two men reluctant to let go of one another. 


	18. Chapter 18

The smell of a hospital is not one Tony is very fond of, the air almost leaving an acrid tang on his tongue as if antiseptic has been swabbed into his mouth. It's the unnatural cleanliness of the place - it only makes him think that much more about underlying sicknesses, quiet conversations behind closed doors, _I'm sorry, I have some bad news_.

The room he and Thor are in has bare, white walls, a bed that's now rumpled because he's sitting on it, and a Dr. Clark. Tony has gotten used to taking care of injuries down in the workshop by himself, Pepper helping out sometimes if she's around, JARVIS sounding both disapproving and concerned as he issues advice, and despite Tony's exaggerated sighs, Dr. Clark patiently continues with his final checks.

Thor doesn't seem to be happy, either, eyeing Dr. Clark attentively. Standing beside the bed, he says, "I cannot help but feel wary here."

"Why?" Tony asks, shifting uncomfortably. His arm aches from holding an icepack against the swelling in his right shoulder and the bruises on his back itch.

"I woke in a similiar place once, before, when my father cast me out of Asgard, and I did not understand that they were healers at first. I thought they wished to do me harm and I fought many of them off, only to succumb to the effects of one of their sharp instruments."

"...You're telling me that they hit you with a tranquilizer and you went down like a sack of potatoes."

"Aye." Thor looks a little ashamed. "It was not my best day."

"That's actually quite sad to hear," Tony says, patting Thor on the arm comfortingly and lowering the icepack, throwing it onto the bedside table. "And it reminds me of how much I want to get out of here. Can I leave now, doc? Now? How about now?"

"Yes, you can, Mr. Stark," Dr. Clark says. "You'll be fine, all you need is rest."

"And painkillers. Give me lots of them. They're fantastic." Tony gently touches his ribs, where only the faintest bursts of pain sporadically flare, receding quickly to a dull sensation.

"Does it hurt there?" Dr. Clark inquires.

"No, not really," Tony replies, pushing up off the bed. It's not _his_ ribs that are truly hurting anyway. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I got places to be, people to see."

Thor gently presses down on Tony's uninjured shoulder. "Be calm, Tony. You will only cause yourself more injury through needless haste."

"I am calm, I am an _oasis_ of calm right now," Tony grumbles but settles down again and Dr. Clark shoots a grateful look in Thor's direction. "You wouldn't happen to know which room the others are in, would you, doc?"

"I can find out for you," Dr. Clark says, leaving the room at that.

"I think he likes me. Don't you get the feeling he likes me?"

"I understand what causes your restlessness," Thor says. "When I was younger, after battle, I would always be restless until I saw to my brother's condition."

"It could've been worse. We all got out with minor injuries."

"Then what is it that troubles you?"

Tony raises his free hand to rub at his face, but remembers the bruises and drops it. He catches movement at the door. "Don't be such a lurker, Cap, it's creepy."

"I wasn't lurking, I'm not Clint," Steve says, stepping in. The top half of his uniform is gone, the blue undershirt he wears beneath it tight across his torso. "Hey, Thor. Good to see your face has healed up."

"It's good to see that you are healing as well, Captain. Perhaps you'll have better luck keeping Tony settled, I shall go and check on the rest of our comrades."

Steve claps Thor on the shoulder as they pass each other. "I'll try my best."

Tony moves to free up some space on the bed for Steve to sit down next to him. "There are so many things wrong with how I look like I've been in a showdown against a wall and _lost_ , but you've got barely a scratch on you."

"If it makes you feel any better, they wrapped me up for my ribs," Steve says with a hand on Tony's chin, looking Tony over carefully, making note of the bruises he can see and the bruises he can't but feels as if they are his own.

"And I bet they enjoyed it, too. A legitimate reason to get Captain America to take his shirt off and then touch him up."

"Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?"

"I don't know why you'd say that, I was just stating a fact. Did you see the others on your way here?"

"Natasha's all ready for debrief, she's very cooperative with the doctors unlike you – yeah, Dr. Clark told me about that – and Bruce was with me in my room. He said he was thinking of postponing his trip in case we get more attacks from AIM."

"He can't do that," Tony says, frowning, standing up. "He's been planning it for weeks."

Steve gently pulls him back down again. "I know. I told him he's going to be on that plane tomorrow even if I have to put him on it myself."

"Nice to know you're not misusing your powers, Cap."

"I would never," Steve says. "What were you and Thor talking about? It seemed pretty serious."

"He was just telling me to take it easy." Tony pauses. "I've been thinking about what happened out there when we were fighting. I didn't – expect it."

"Neither did I. Last time, we were up against an army and we got hit worse, but I never felt it when you got hurt." Steve touches his own right shoulder and then reaches further down to his back. "The pain comes and goes."

"Yeah, it's annoying." Tony can't help his fidgeting. "You know, if we're feeling it now, it means only one thing."

"The Bond's getting stronger," Steve says into the gap between their faces.

It's frightening, that thought. It's exhilarating.

Tony remembers succumbing to sleep with Steve's arms falling around him like the impenetrable walls of a fortress. He remembers burying his face in Steve's neck that night in the dark penthouse suite and he remembers his hand on Steve's jaw, their breaths mingling, their lips so close to melding into one shape. The Bond has no choice but to change as they change, grow as they grow. "The gift that keeps on giving," he says, lacking his usual sarcastic edge. "I won't be able to hide injuries from you anymore, will I?"

Steve narrows his eyes, cocks his head to the side slightly. "What do you mean 'anymore'?"

"Uh," Tony says. "Did I say that? I don't think I said that. You banged your head, you don't know what you're talking about and hey, look, I spot a pirate yonder. No, really, Steve, Fury's at the door."

Steve doesn't let up with the narrowed eyes immediately, but he does say, "director," the word coming out seconds before he turns his head towards the door.

Fury stares, not impassively and not with that _do not try shit with me, motherfucker, I will beat you until you're a stain on the ground and then run you over just because I damn well can_ expression either, but with a considering one, his eye boring down on them like it's seen something fascinating and is methodically breaking it down. "I hate to interrupt this cosy little picture," he says, "but there's a debrief waiting to happen."

Tony smirks and when he stands up this time, he stays standing up. "And you came to pick us up yourself? You shouldn't have."

"Next time, I won't."

Tony gasps theatrically. "Are you – are you _smiling_? I thought that was a once-in-a-blue-moon- thing. Steve, are you seeing this?"

"I am," Steve says, "and before you ask, no, I'm not going to check if there's a blue moon outside." He stands up, spine straight, the soldier in him used to responding to higher-ups, but it's not quite the same as it was when they last saw Fury, not as trusting anymore. Fury isn't stupid; he must see that for the loss it is.

Fury nods at Steve, then turns, leads them out into and down the hallway, saying, "you pull through, Stark, you always pull through."

Tony arches an eyebrow, half sure that that's a compliment.

"Was it another ten bucks?" Steve asks, mouth curling with dry amusement.

"Fifty," Fury replies.

"What are you two talking about?" Tony asks, but gets no answers.

+

"Tony, promise me you will not turn my workspace into a meth lab while I'm gone."

"Only if you promise to bring back a bust of me."

"Fine. I promise to bring back a bust of you. Your turn."

"I hereby solemnly swear to not turn your workspace into a meth lab while you're gone," Tony says, but turns his head towards Clint and whispers, "looks like meth lab is out."

"We'll just have to get more creative," Clint whispers back.

Bruce shoulders his bag with a good-natured shake of his head and turns to Natasha. "Please don't let them get creative?"

Natasha smiles at him and steps up to fix the collar of his coat. "I don't know, do I get a bust of myself, too?"

"No," Tony says. "Only billionaires get busts."

"You will let us know if you are in trouble through Tony's device, yes?" Thor asks, rising from the couch to bring Bruce in for a hug that lifts Bruce off his feet.

"Yeah, I remember," Bruce says, tapping at his watch when his feet are firmly back on the ground again. "All I have to do is press down on this point here and you guys will know."

The lift hums and its doors open to show Steve inside, doing up the last of his coat buttons. "JARVIS, hold the lift, please," Steve says. "Ready to go, Bruce?"

"Yeah, I am. Isn't it a bit too much having both you and Clint dropping me off?"

"All the cool kids get to have two Avenger bodyguards minimum," Tony says. It would've been three, but the ache in his shoulder hasn't gone down enough for him to drive Bruce to the airport himself. Ordinarily, Tony would've done it anyway but Steve had given him the Stern Look of Disapproval and Bruce refused to go anywhere with him.

"You wound me, doc," Clint sniffs. "It's like you don't want me there."

Tony walks over to Steve and jabs a finger into Steve's chest. "Don't get Bruce killed before you reach the airport. I know you, Captain America, you've got a need for speed, you're a thrill chaser, once a menace to German tanks, now a menace to the streets of New York."

"That's only happened a few times," Steve says, like he doesn't routinely destroy the Boy Scout image Tony had constructed from propaganda reels and his own imagination. "And you do realise that you're the last person to talk to me about speeding, don't you?"

Tony makes a noncommital noise in concession.  "Jesus, you look like you're sending your first born off to college. Easy on the Proud Papa Bear look, Steve."

"But I'm just so happy for my son."

Bruce ignores them in favour of accepting a hug from Natasha, something whispered between them that Tony doesn't manage to hear but Steve apparently does if the grin on his face is anything to go by. Clint drags Bruce into the lift, Bruce squeezing Tony's arm as he passes by.

"Make haste or else you will be late," Thor says. "I wish you a safe journey."

"We'll be back soon," Steve says, nodding at them all. 

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, kids," Bruce manages to shout just before the doors close.

Tony watches the lift descend and, in a melodramatic tone, says, "Natasha, I think I'm feeling a little emotional now that Bruce has gone back out into the big, bad world by himself."

Natasha pats the side of his face that doesn't have bruises. "There's only one solution to this: Ben & Jerry's and a film," she says and promptly vanishes into the kitchen.

Thor sprawls himself across the floor like a contented lion. "I shall miss the good doctor."

Tony steps over Thor to get onto the couch, snatching up the tablet sitting on the cushions. "I know," he says. He'll miss Bruce's sedate expressions and their three a.m. conversations in the lab, Bruce's words flowing like still water, Tony's like raging seas. Clint will be drinking tea by himself for a while now; Steve will mutter phrases from his books under his breath and have no one quoting the next line. "Now, we're going to have to settle for playing chess with Steve and he's just going to win every round and not be smug about it, which makes it even more annoying actually. I'd prefer the smugness."

Thor nods with a quiet laugh. "What shall we watch today? I have heard Clint mention a brave adventurer of the name 'Indiana Jones'."

"Indy, huh? You got that, JARVIS? It's time for a visit to the Temple of Doom."

Natasha returns with several tubs of Ben & Jerry's and three spoons and there is a brief tussle over all the different flavours, which Thor wins simply because he has the bigger reach and clutches his favourites to his chest. Through mouthfuls of ice cream, Natasha bemoans Willie's existence and Tony endures far too many instances of brain freeze ("oh, man, it's like the brain's version of the Blue Screen of Death, guys, I think I'm shutting down," "you are a mighty warrior, Tony, this is but a minor obstacle!"), but can't bring himself to regret any of it.

Natasha ends up with a dab of ice cream at one edge of her mouth and Tony doesn't mention it because it makes for an endearing picture, no trace of Agent Romanoff in the way she absentmindedly pushes back a lock of her hair behind an ear or how she's dressed in only well-worn clothes, butterfly plasters, and plain skin. Thor asks for the next film and at some point, between sending e-mails to Pepper, reading through estimations for reparation costs, and watching The Last Crusade, Tony closes his eyes for just a few seconds, resting his head on Natasha's shoulder.

When he opens them again, the living room has morphed into his bedroom, slats of moonlight and shadows slanting across the floor.

Tony blinks. "JARVIS, what time is it and how the hell did I get here?"

"Eight thirteen p.m.," JARVIS says. "You have slept for almost five hours. Captain Rogers carried you to your bedroom when he and Agent Barton returned four hours and thirty two minutes ago."  

"Oh. That's not embarrassing at all." Tony groans and rolls himself off the bed as carefully as he can. "At least tell me it wasn't in front of the team."

"It was not. Everyone had already vacated the room. I believe they knew you were in good hands."

"Where is he? I think he needs to be shouted at."

"If you think so, then it must be correct," JARVIS says and if he were human, there'd be a sigh in his voice right now. Tony can hear it regardless. "He is on the roof. While you were asleep, sir, Colonel Rhodes left a message."

"Ah," Tony says. Last night he had received the Tony-are-you-okay-you-dumbass phone call and if Rhodey sticks to his routine, then tonight it's the Tony-you-better-not-be-in-your-workshop phone call. "Let me hear it."

"Tony, you better not be in your workshop," Rhodey says and Tony grins broadly. "If you are, I will kick your ass for it when I come over next month. Rest up, Stark, you'll be taking me out to town."

"JARVIS, mark it on the calendar," Tony says at the end of the message.

"Mark the entire month?"

"Sure, why not? Next month is the Month of Rhodey's Return to Civilisation by Which I Mean Me."

"A creative title."

"Are you judging me. I feel like you're judging me."

JARVIS doesn't comment, but his silence still holds the air of judgement. Tony drags himself towards the bathroom to wash away the grogginess of his eyes, grimacing at the discoloured bruises on his face. JARVIS mentions the painkillers and the glass of water sitting on his bedside table ("Steve?" "Naturally, sir.") before Tony hurries off to the roof.

Steve has his back to the entrance and his head tilted skywards, but this doesn't stop Tony from pointing an accusing finger at him anyway. "You," he says the moment he steps out onto the roof, the ground like ice beneath his bare feet, "you _carried_ me. How dare you."

"Shame on me for moving you to somewhere more comfortable," Steve says, looking down and frowning at Tony's thin shirt. "Where's your coat? And your shoes?"

Tony hugs himself, rubbing his arms. "I came up here in a hurry to shout out you, okay? Now, let's get back to shouting part. You could've just woken me up and told me haul my ass to the bedroom, a good shake would've done the trick."

Despite Tony's objections, Steve unbuttons his coat and throws it over Tony's shoulders. It sits around Tony like a warm embrace, smelling heavily of Steve, and Steve looks particularly pleased at the sight. "The man who comes out into the cold without his coat and shoes does not get to argue. Did you take your painkillers?"

"Yes, sir, Captain, sir. Shouting. Remember the shouting? We're still doing that."

"Well, you're right, I could've just woken you up," Steve says, "but then you wouldn't have snuggled up to me like you did."

"I did _what_?"

"You snuggled up to me."

"You're lying," Tony cries out, horrified. "Tony Stark does not – does not," he can't even say the word without feeling like a ten year old, " _snuggle_."

"And Captain America does not lie," Steve intones serenely. "Just ask JARVIS. You wouldn't let me go. It was adorable, actually."

Tony Stark does not do adorable either, but instead of arguing against that, what slips out of his mouth is, "then, why didn't you stay? You should've stayed." He's surprised by his own words but not enough to regret them.

"You didn't ask me to," Steve says slowly, "I didn't know if you'd want me there when you woke up."

We've already slept in the same bed and I almost kissed you yesterday, Tony thinks a little hysterically, how could you think I wouldn't. Steve looks at him like he can hear those thoughts. "You should've stayed," Tony says again.  

"Next time," Steve promises.

Tony likes the sound of that. "So, why are you up here, anyway? Stargazing and musing on the meaning of life?"

"Something like that. I like coming up here to think."

"And what does Steve Rogers think about when he's in the mood for contemplation?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Steve says with a delightfully secretive grin. He motions towards where the previous day's fight took place. "Your company's going to get involved with paying for the repairs, isn't it? Like it did last time?"

"Yeah, I've got Pepper on it already. We're going to have to deal with the press too, give them an official statement. You should be the one who gives it to them, oh brave leader of ours."

"I'll do that." Tony's toes curl, cold, and he tugs Steve's coat around himself tighter. Steve notices. "Natasha told me all you guys ate was ice cream, so you're probably hungry right now." He grips Tony's wrist lightly. "C'mon, let's get something to eat."

Tony lets himself be tugged inside, making half-hearted complaints about being manhandled that Steve silences easily with knowing smiles.

Much later, Tony has JARVIS pull up the footage from the living room and watches himself sleep on obliviously as Steve carefully lifts him off the couch, spending a long moment just standing there, cradling Tony in his arms like he could somehow bring Tony into himself that way. Tony watches himself cling to Steve, pressing against him and that ever-present warmth (so, perhaps not that oblivious after all, his mind asleep, but his heart still awake and yearning). He watches Steve take him to his room, each step unhurried as if trying to delay the end.

Tony knows, then, that he can't deny it anymore.

+

His bruises and aches fade away with Tony half-noticing it, the thought of what he's going to do taking up all his attention. It's sitting there at the forefront of his mind, setting alight everything else until it's just Steve that's left in his head, though, to be fair, that's been the case for much longer than the past few weeks.

He keeps it quiet and it's not unusual for him to be preoccupied, the cause almost always a project down in the workshop, so no one questions it much when he takes twice as long to reply during conversations. No one, except for Steve, who must be sensing something through the Bond and sends more than a few odd looks Tony's way. Tony just shrugs and mumbles about new ideas whenever Steve asks.

"Today's the day, is it, sir?" JARVIS asks. "You have been quiet for an extraordinary length of time."

Tony taps his fingers against the arc reactor, a rhythm he can only feel and not hear, the music too loud around him. The design for Clint's electro-arrows hangs in the air; he has yet to pay any actual attention to it. "Yeah, today's the day." He's not particularly sure why today's the day, only that it felt like it should be when he woke up, still fuzzy from a dream he couldn't remember and blue eyes and sun-kissed hair the first thought he reached for.  

"Are you experiencing nerves?"

"Are you mocking me or is that meant to be a sincere question?"

"A sincere question. If I was mocking you, I would've inquired about performance issues."

"I did too good a job when I made you," Tony says with a clucking tongue. "It is weird, though."

"What is?"

"I should be panicking, but I'm not. I should be panicking over why I'm not panicking, but I'm not doing that, either."

"This is a good sign, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I suppose it is." Tony eyes the unopened bottle of scotch he brought down with him. The compulsion to drink is missing too (no nerves to calm with a quick swig, after all) and maybe _that's_ the weirdest thing. He can't say he's all too sad about it, though. Pepper would be proud. "These are potentially my last moments as a single man."

"I'm honoured that you choose to spend them with me."

"So you should be. Shut everything down, JARVIS. It's time to take a leap of faith."

"Yes, sir. Captain Rogers is currently in his bedroom."

Tony walks into the lift, no hesitation to be found in his steps. Over the years, he has ceded too much of himself and hasn't got most of it back. Some parts are emblazoned upon magazine covers or cemented in the small fonts of newspaper articles, and other parts are trapped in the hands of the living and the dead – Pepper, Rhodey, Obie, Yinsen. What he has left, he will give to Steve to keep and safeguard and call his own.

"Come in," Steve says when Tony decides to save the barging in for another day and knocks on his door.

Inside, Tony sees the fluorescent blue of holograms first, several of them floating in the air and encasing Steve within a transparent wall where he's sitting on the edge of his bed. "Hey, what's all this?"

"All the files SHIELD has on AIM, I'm making some notes." Steve pulls up a photograph of what initially appears to be simply a swamp and gestures to the outlines of a hidden building. "SHIELD have been investigating and they think that this could be an android factory. We're going to have to check it out."

Tony nods, scanning each projection. "I'm good to go whenever you want."

"It'll be sometime soon," Steve says. "Did you come here for the pleasure of my company or is something up?"

"You make it sound like I only come to you whenever things go wrong."

"So, you didn't steal Thor's pop-tarts again and aren't in need of protection?"

" _Once_ , I only did that _once_ and never will I do it again," Tony says. "I'm just here to, well, I just wanted to talk about something – but if you're busy, it's fine," he waves at the holograms and steps backwards, "I'll—"

"JARVIS, please save and close everything." The room loses all the blue light and all of Steve's undivided attention plummets onto Tony. "It can wait for a bit. What do you want to talk about?"

Tony looks around the room distractedly until a familiar object on Steve's desk earns itself a second glance. He laughs disbelievingly, reaching out for it. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," Steve grins, "I told you I'd put it on my desk, didn't I?"

Tony digs his thumbs into the soft stomach of the Iron Man stuffed toy and pulls at its repulsor boots. "You're ridiculous, you know that? I can't believe you still have this."

"What can I say? I'm a big fan."

"Apparently, Iron Man is a big fan of Captain America," Tony says, setting the toy down and turning around, "but you didn't hear it from me."

"I can keep a secret."

"Good, that's good." Tony rubs his palms on his jeans, the anxious flutter that's been mysteriously absent up until this point finally starting to bloom in his stomach. "Right. So, yeah, I had this speech all planned out, but it's kinda gone from my head now that I'm standing here in front of you. That, by the way, tends to happen a lot when I'm with you and is frankly unacceptable. My brain cannot just short-circuit like that, how am I meant to function?"

"I'm so sorry for inconveniencing you like that," Steve says. "I'll have a few words with myself."

Tony makes a noise that can't decide if it wants to be a scoff or a laugh. "Just let me talk first, alright, and then you can say what you want." He runs a hand through his hair, trying to retrieve those words he had cobbled together in preparation, and looks at Steve, who's waiting, always waiting. Tony doesn't want him to wait anymore. He swallows hard and says, "in the beginning, I was – well, I'd rather not say terrified, but it's the truth. I _was_ terrified. Of the Bond, of you. It took Obie years to get into my head like he did, but you, you managed it in five seconds flat, and I had no idea how to deal with that. The Bond was a prison, it had to be, I thought." 

Steve becomes tense, his eyes fixed on Tony, blinking deemed unnecessary. 

It makes Tony's next words tumble out faster from his tight throat. "But I was wrong. You proved me wrong. This, here, us, this can't ever be a prison. I tried pushing you away, but you came back, I still said no and you're still here, you let me choose. Every time I think about the years before we met, I feel empty, I feel wrong, like someone's just pulled the arc reactor out of me and, and it _hurts_ , Steve. I don't know why I get to have you and I think you're crazy for not running when you had the chance, but I'm not letting go. I'm done running."

He closes the distance between them with two short strides, suddenly feeling breathless with his admissions out in the air between them, more still tucked inside his chest. Steve still isn't looking away and Tony catches up-close the moment Steve realises what is imminent, the widening of his eyes and the sharp intake of air.

"I want," he says and has to pause because he wants so much when it comes to Steve that words just don't seem enough. He can hear his own desperation, the truth in his words, "I want you. I want us. You make me want that. I trust you, Steve."

Steve's hands clench into tight fists on his lap.

Slowly, Tony sinks down to his knees, head bowed.

Steve doesn't say anything at first.

Tony waits, listening to silence. It's his turn to wait now, so he will.

A hand brushes against the top of his head. "You're shaking."

Tony realises for the first time that he is. The tremors are faint, but he can't make them stop.

"Breathe," Steve says quietly, gently urging Tony to lean his head on Steve's knee, carding fingers through Tony's hair. "It's okay, Tony, you're okay. Just breathe for me."

Tony does, his inhales shaky and his exhales long, shuddering sounds that gradually even out. He leans against Steve's leg until the tremors subside, coaxed away by Steve's voice and stroking fingers. Tony's shoulders slump, his next breath coming out as a little sigh as he turns his face into Steve's thigh, relaxing under the relief that's beginning to set in. It feels right, being here finally. It feels like a victory.

He almost doesn't notice Steve's fingers stilling until Steve says, "come here," and barely a moment later Tony is off the ground and straddling Steve's lap. Large hands come up to frame his face, thumbs skimming against his cheekbones. "You're not going to regret this, I swear."

"I trust you," Tony says again, his own hands on Steve's shoulders, feeling the strain in those muscles. "We can do it together."

"We can," Steve says as easily as murmuring any other spoken truth. "We will."

Tony smiles. Steve smiles back, achingly fond, and Tony basks in it like it's sunlight meant only for him, knowing in some inexplicable way that this smile really is solely his. It makes him wrap his arms around Steve's neck to bring himself closer to that smile and after that, the kiss – like them, Tony decides – is inevitable.

He's seated higher, so he has to lean down this time, the first press of their mouths gentle but not tentative. They hold it there, memorizing the feel of it, and then Steve's lips move against his in slow, wet glides that tease along the seam of his mouth. Tony falls into the unhurriedness, the quietly assured and tender way that Steve kisses and how it stirs the banked desire in Tony's stomach to life. Steve's fingers tilt his head and everything in Tony curls deliciously at the possessive rumble that sounds in Steve's throat when Tony opens his mouth so easily for him. He can't help his own soft noises at Steve's tongue stroking the inside of his mouth in long sweeps, learning or savouring or maybe both.

Steve lets him go but not by much, confessing against Tony's lips with a little laugh, "it's kind of ridiculous how much I've wanted to do that, you can feel it, can't you, just how much?"

"I can," Tony says, lightheaded, because he really can, the Bond having opened up to let Steve's longing spill into Tony in a wild torrent. It's heady, being wanted this much even when Tony is so used to being coveted, it's the best kind of being drunk. He crashes his mouth against Steve's desperately, because he doesn't know what else to do with this – this _need_ that's been quietly building up beneath his skin all this time, finally reaching breaking point. Steve responds frantically, his hands sliding up into Tony's hair, holding him still and twining their tongues together while Tony just gasps and gasps, all finesse he has ever claimed to have gone. Steve subjects him to messy licks and sharp bites like he's trying to mark every day he's waited into Tony's mouth.

"Steve," he says in between kisses, talking an effort, "Steve, why did I wait, why did I put this off for so long, _why_."

"You did right," Steve says, mouth swollen, eyes feverish, "you need to be true to yourself, always, and this is, has always been, worth the wait."

"You're unreal. You don't exist, I just made you up to deal with my one thousand and one issues."

"All real, all yours." Steve peers at Tony so closely, his eyelashes almost sweeping against Tony's, and he murmurs, "do you know what I thought when I first touched you? I was suddenly in the future, I had no one left, I had no idea what to do, but there you were, so gorgeous and meant for me, and I thought I had someone left, after all. That I had to go into the ice if only to find you."

Tony had only just got his breath back and now it's gone again, his heart possibly only seconds away from just collapsing in on itself like a concertina. "Steve, you can't just, just say things like _that_."

"Why not? It's true," Steve says, his teeth nipping at Tony's lower lip, and then they're kissing again, kissing like they're trying to make up for the seventy years that's kept them apart, for every moment they've missed each other without even knowing why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEN CHAPTERS SINCE THEY FIRST BECAME FRIENDS AND NOW, WE HAVE FINALLY REACHED THIS POINT. LET US CELEBRATE. It feels bloody good to write them kissing.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT, IT'S BEEN OVER A MONTH. My deep apologies for the delay, I was drowning in coursework (my uni likes to dump _all the essays_ on us during our "christmas break" and then walk off laughing all trololol). Thank you so much to all for waiting (and for all the kudos and comments, which is just _wow_ , I didn't expect so much, thank you!), I hope this chapter makes it up to you. It's around 7500 words and I don't even know why??? I just couldn't shut up. My undying gratitude to the amazing [zizizit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zizizit) for checking through this chapter for me. 
> 
> I stole the location of AIM's android factory off wikipedia (why you would have a factory in the middle of a swamp, I have no idea, but let's just go with it). The _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_ reference is quite obvious, "itty bitty spare ribs" is from Chris Evans' film _What's Your Number?_ Also, Zach Berkman's song 'Try' is extremely fitting for this fic and was the – background music, I suppose, for the first section of this chapter. Please enjoy the chapter! :)
> 
> EDIT: Also, a lovely reader has pointed out that the second section of this chapter is reminiscent of the ending to Katharine Hepburn's film, _Woman of the Year_. I haven't watched this film, so this is unintentional, but I thought I'd mention it regardless.

His mouth is bruised and he feels almost dizzy, breath and laughter and words all tangled up together in his throat. There's a blueprint of Steve's mouth on his tongue, there's a murmuring in his veins that can only be _them_ , everything they're feeling right now coalescing together like double helixes.

"Steve," he says raggedly.

"I know," Steve says hoarsely against his jaw, like a man who has finally known relief after pain. Tony touches his face and Steve presses kisses into his fingertips, saying, "this is – so much. I can _feel_ you and – I didn't think this is how it'd feel."

It's the first time they've opened themselves up like this, let each other a little deeper into the places where desire (and perhaps something else that Tony isn't sure he wants to examine yet) burns bright, and maybe that's why it's so overwhelming. Tony tries not to think about what'll happen when they move beyond the play of lips and tongues and focuses instead on Steve's gilded hair, the mess his fingers have made of it.

Somewhere along the way, they rearranged themselves on Steve's bed but Tony doesn't remember when. Steve is above him, holding himself up on his forearm, and their legs are tangled wires Tony doesn't care to undo. He likes the weight of Steve's body on top of his, finds safety in every inch and not suffocation.

They stay still as they calm down together. The Bond recedes back into their bones in between heartbeats, taking with it the storm of emotions that rattles their insides.

"So," Steve says. "We should do that again."

Tony laughs; pressed as close as they are, it reverberates through them both. "You're going to end up with beard burn."

"I'll wear it with pride."

"Where did you learn to kiss like that, anyway? I don't think they teach that in the army."

"They don't," Steve says with a small, curious smirk. He spreads his fingers over Tony's cheek, grazes them over his eyes, the bridge of his nose, studying his face intently.

Tony didn't think he could still blush, but his cheeks are unmistakably growing hot. He had wondered once what it would feel like to have all of Steve's careful attention on him, he wonders now what those artist's eyes see. "I'm pretty sure you've seen my face before. What's with the staring?"

"I just get to do this now," Steve says, touching the spot behind Tony's ear that makes Tony arch up a little.

"You get to do a lot more," Tony says, the implication more than obvious. A thrill dances through him at the thought.

"I know, I'm still trying to get my head around that," Steve says wonderingly and Tony recognises the expression on Steve's face – it was seared into his memory like a brand in that moment they had Bonded and Steve had looked at him like Tony was the destination of all his journeys. Tony wants to be looked at like that all the time. "I thought about this a lot, about you. It was so hard, knowing there was something you were hiding and watching you fight with it by yourself, but I knew I had to wait until you told me yourself. What was it that convinced you to give this a try?"

"You mean something other than you being incredibly you?" Tony says. "Well, maybe a friend of mine told me that I could think about it all I want, but it's easier sometimes to take a leap of faith. You might know the guy, he walks around with a bow, wears purple boxers too much, and knows all the lines of every Disney movie in existence."

"Yeah," Steve says laughingly, dropping down onto his back. "I think I know who you're talking about. I'm going to have to thank him, too."

Tony rolls onto Steve's chest, the line of muscle beneath him surprisingly comfortable, and rests his chin there. "I guess I'm also a little glad for the whole shebang with the androids."

"Why's that?"

"It reminded me that every time we go out there, we're risking our lives. If something happened, if I lost my chance with you – let's just say I realised I didn't like the thought of that." Steve slides a hand over the crown of his head and down to his nape, squeezing lightly and then tugging up. Tony scoots up until their noses nudge. "You don't need me to tell you that this isn't going to be easy, Steve."

"No, I don't. We're going to have to be more open with each other to make this work."

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," Tony says. "Try to, anyway. It'll make for interesting conversation at least."

"I'll do the same. I'm going to do my hardest to do right by you, but I'm not perfect, Tony."

"Neither am I. I'm not asking for perfect, I'm the last person to be asking for that. I just. I just want you."

"That, I think I can manage."

"Glad to hear it," Tony says. "Does this mean we're going to get registered as Bonded soon? The press is going to go wild when they find out, we're pretty high up there when it comes to unusual Bonded pairs."

Steve's brow crinkles. "Maybe we should wait a while before we do that, enjoy this without having all that attention on us." Tentatively, he adds, "I haven't really done this before."

"What do you mean? A relationship?"

"Yeah, but everything else, too. As in, I haven't slept with anyone, either. Kisses were as far as I've ever gone."

Tony gawks. "...You're kidding me."

Steve shrugs. "You've seen pictures of me from before the serum, haven't you? You think anyone wanted a Dom who looked like that?"

"They should have been lining up for you," Tony says emphatically. "What a bunch of morons."

"Are you telling me you would still choose me if I was all tiny again?"

"Hey, the muscles are just pretty packaging, you're still Steve with or without them. And if you sassed me like you do now, then you can be damn sure I wouldn't have been able to keep away."

Steve laughs and tangles his fingers into the hair at Tony's nape with a sweet smile. "Well, I happen to like the idea of my Bonded being the only one I'm going to be with like that." Admittedly, so does Tony, who feels a hot spike of satisfaction at the knowledge and yet— "You've got your strange thinking face on."

"My thinking face is not strange. Enthralling, fascinating, intriguing, these are all examples of acceptable adjectives."

Steve shakes his head. "It's strange. You screw up your face, stare really hard, and then do weird things like close one eye and make a circle with your fingers around the other one. What are you thinking about?"

"That I don't have a strange thinking face," Tony says. "And that this is, if this is your first ever relationship, it's pretty insane for you to choose someone with so much baggage."

Steve frowns deeply. "I told you, I've thought about this a lot. I've had enough time to. If I wanted someone else, I wouldn't have asked you to consider this, but I don't and I did. You said you trust me. You can trust that I know what I'm getting into. Besides, you're not the only one with baggage. You've seen me brooding all over the place, you know how I can get."

Tony nods vigorously, making a loud, exaggerated noise of agreement. "Not to mention how you regularly abuse the gym, how you will _fight to the death_ if anyone interrupts your documentaries, and how much of a neat freak you are, your order does not need to come near my chaos—"

"You can stop anytime now, Tony."

"—and you're so stubborn and overbearing sometimes, I know how Pepper feels when she's dealing with me. Oh, also, let's not forget all the times when you—"

"Really. Anytime."

Tony gives Steve a crooked grin. "So, how have you been catching up on everything you've missed? Have you been – wait, have you been watching porn for the sake of education? Please tell me you have."

"I've been reading and watching, yeah," Steve admits. "Just to see what new things people have come up with, really."

"Just to see what's new," Tony repeats slowly. "Is there something you want to share with the class, Captain, about your extracurricular activities back in the forties?"

"Oh, you can bet I saw and heard a lot of things," Steve says. He gets that look on his face (an expression that's a mix of wistfulness and delight) that Tony has learned signifies an imminent anecdote. "Once, Peggy caught us – the Howling Commandos, but really, it was Bucky who gave it to me – looking at pictures of men and women who weren't wearing much at all and she took them and threw them into the fire. I was so embarrassed, but Bucky couldn't stop laughing because he knew I liked her."

"What else are best friends for, if not to laugh at you?"

"Bucky and the rest of the guys didn't exactly pass up chances for a good time with a war going on, you know." Steve swipes his thumb against Tony's lower lip leisurely, the light pressure exquisite. "I may not have done anything, Tony, but I've always known what I want."

"Yeah?" Tony asks breathily, tempted to take Steve's thumb into his mouth. "And what's that?"

Steve smiles enigmatically, his lips full of promise. "I'll tell you all about it in time."

Tony decides it's not good for his heart if Steve smiles at him like that. "JARVIS, you're fired for not telling me about any of this."

"You cannot fire me if I resign, sir."

"Is this you handing in your notice?"

"JARVIS, please don't resign," Steve says. "You're my partner in crime."

 "Very well, Captain—"

"JARVIS is actually meant to be _my_ partner in crime."

"—and I believe congratulations are in order. This has been a much anticipated turn of events. I'm certain the rest of the Avengers will also agree."

"They're probably going to throw a party when we tell them."

" _If_ we tell them," Tony corrects. "I think we can let them be oblivious for a bit longer, since they're so emotionally invested in our relationship. Same goes for Pepper and Rhodey, they didn't tell me about her and Happy and no, that's not an admission of bitterness no matter how much it sounds like one."

"You're a menace."

"Your menace, now."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Steve says. He pensively strokes Tony's throat where a collar would sit. "I wish I had something to give you."

"You mean a collar?"

"No, just something of mine you could keep with you. Is that something you'd like or is it too soon?"

The idea of having a token from Steve isn't exactly unappealing, although he'd have to keep it out of sight. "There are people who still collar right at the beginning of their relationships, so, no, it isn't too soon. I don't wear jewellery, but if you wanted, I could make an exception?"

"I don't have anything except for my dog tags and I doubt you'd want to wear those," Steve says.

"I could hide them easily under my shirt," Tony replies.

Steve stops stroking, looking towards his desk and then back at Tony's neck. "You'd actually wear them?"

"Wouldn't hurt me if I did."

Slowly, Steve nudges Tony off of him and heads over to his desk, opening the first drawer. Tony sits up to watch and hears the sound of metal clinking before Steve returns to the bed. "Feels a little weird giving a guy like you something like this," Steve says. "You're used to fine things, these are scratched and nothing fancy."

"I think this is fine," Tony says.

"I had them on the day I went down into the ice. They're really the only thing I had left before you gave me that box from Howard. You really won't mind wearing them?"

Tony shifts closer as his answer and ducks his head slightly for Steve to slip the ball chain over his head. "Thanks," he says quietly. The chain feels cold against his skin, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, and the dog tags clatter against the arc reactor. "Look at that, it falls perfectly over my arc reactor. Isn't that just _romantic_ , Steve, your name pressed against my heart, or, well, nearly my heart, at all times – mmmph." Tony closes his eyes and opens his mouth wider to let Steve take more and Steve does with more than a hint of roughness, as if unable to help himself. "Okay," Tony breathes out when they break apart. "So, that's a thing for you. The dog tags."

"Not so much the dog tags as the person wearing them," Steve says, pushing him back down onto the bed. Tony lets him have his fill of staring and when Steve locks eyes with him again, he tips his head back onto a pillow, baring his neck in invitation, a capitulation. Steve kisses the underside of his jaw, runs his teeth along the valley of his throat, biting just hard enough for Tony to feel the sting but not leave a mark. "We can talk some more later," he mutters into Tony's collarbone, pulling himself up to look at Tony. "But right now, I think we have lost time to make up for."

"Yes, sir," Tony says softly. He runs his tongue over his lips and watches Steve carefully track the motion with hunger darkening the blue of his eyes.

"My name," Steve says, leaning in for Tony's lips. "I'd rather hear you say my name."

Tony's reply is lost in Steve's mouth.

+

The following day, Tony's morning begins like this:

"Sir, is this wise?"

"It's just pancakes, JARVIS. If I can build my own particle accelerator, then I can damn well make my own pancakes."

It then moves onto:

"Holy shit, the batter nearly went into my eye."

"I did warn you not to whisk so vigorously."

"Don't even, JARVIS. You're not my wife."

"For which I am exceedingly grateful."

By the time Steve enters the kitchen, Tony is attempting to flip a pancake without the use of a spatula and failing repeatedly. "I've come this far, I can't be defeated now, do you hear me? Iron Man will not lose against _food_."

"I have faith in you," JARVIS says. "Good morning, Captain."

The pan clangs loudly as Tony lets it go and turns towards the door. "Steve! Hey, you're finished with your run already?"

Steve stares back in shock for several long moments, eyes wide. And then, unexpectedly, he bursts out into laughter, peal after peal after peal, clutching at his sides, shaking with it and looking like he's going to collapse or cry because he's laughing so hard.

Tony just watches, dumbfounded.

"What are – what were – you," Steve tries to get out but can't, pressing his arm against his mouth as if that'll stifle his laughter. "You should – see yourself, oh, God, Tony, you're a sight."

"Stop laughing at me," Tony grouches weakly, but he sounds like he wants to laugh, too. He looks down at himself, flour and splatters of the pancake batter staining both his hands and apron, some of it spreading onto his clothes. When Steve still doesn't stop, Tony gives in and lets a laugh slip free, embarrassed and screwing his eyes shut against the flour that's clinging determinedly to his face.

Steve swipes at the corner of one eye and comes closer after he locates a cloth, his laughter dwindling into chuckles, those chuckles dwindling into a grin. "Here, I'll clean you up a little."

"You're not my mother, Steve," Tony says, but obediently stays still anyway.

"Considering our relationship, I'd say that that's a good thing, wouldn't you?" Steve tilts Tony's face up a little and wipes carefully, while Tony stares at Steve's nose, almost going cross-eyed.

"You smell nice," he says absently, leaning in a little to catch some more of the soapy smell left behind from Steve's shower. "You never wear cologne."

"I prefer not to unless I'm going somewhere fancy."

"That's good." Obie always wore cologne. It used to seep into Tony's clothes and sometimes choked him in his dreams. Now and then, he thinks he can smell it again. "It's a very good thing."

"Hi, there," Steve says when Tony's face is clean of everything sticking to it.

"Hi, yourself." Tony allows himself a smirk at Steve dropping his eyes to his neck. "You're staring at the dog tags, aren't you?"

"I can't help it." Steve touches the hint of the silver chain peeking out from Tony's collar and the skin beneath it. "I like seeing them on you."

"You won't be able to look away at all when I wear your collar," Tony says. "If you give me a collar, I mean."

Steve looks at him, considering, and says, "your pancake is burning."

Tony is back at the stove in a matter of seconds, though there's nothing much to do but throw away the now burnt pancake. He does so solemnly. "I would just like to make it known to the jury that if I hadn't been distracted, that pancake would not have suffered the fate that it did."

"So, it's my fault. That's what you're saying."

"That's precisely what I'm saying."

Steve drops the cloth on the counter and comes up behind him, close enough for Tony to feel his body heat and sense Steve towering over him, but not close enough to touch. Tony feels hyperaware of Steve in a way he hasn't ever since the Bond first stabilized; it's a pleasant tingle that lingers on the inside of his skin. "What if," Steve says, voice dropping low, "I said that it's your fault for being so distracting that I got distracted and then distracted you?"

"Compelling argument," Tony says, seemingly oblivious to anything but pouring more batter into the pan. "JARVIS, you can be the judge. What's your verdict?"

"I rule in favour of Captain Rogers. You are known for being distracting."

"Ah, so you're not just a traitor, you're also a creepy traitor. Are you hitting on me, JARVIS?"

"Merely stating a fact. I would not wish to contend with Captain Rogers for your affections. I fear I may win and that would sour my acquaintance with him."

Steve presses his laughter into Tony's shoulder. He glances at the pan with a grin. "Blueberry pancakes. My favourite."

"I know. The fact that you make it every time we have pancakes is kind of a clue."

"Why the sudden urge to make breakfast today?"

"Oh, I just thought that I should," Tony waves a hand as if that'll supply the rest of the answer. He knows he didn't have to and that it's not expected of him anymore as it was back in Steve's time. "Don't seem to have mastered the art of flipping these things over yet," he adds, giving into using the spatula to turn the pancake over. "You make it look so easy."

"How about I handle that part then and you find the syrup?"

"Look at you, making a domestic man out of me," Tony says, taking off the flour-stained apron and yawning.

"How long have you been up exactly?"

"From six thirty?" Tony surveys the mess he's made of the kitchen. Really, he could've done worse; at least he didn't get any pancakes stuck to the ceiling.

"It took you an hour to do all of this?"

"Hey, there's a reason I don't cook. That will forever be your domain."

"There is a reason you're not allowed to cook," JARVIS points out.

"Shut up, you," Tony says. He rummages through the cupboards in search of syrup and after that, replaces the cold coffee in his mug with a fresher brew, pouring Steve some in another mug. He can't quite hold back his sadness at how Steve drinks his coffee with such little sugar, especially when he mixes the mugs up and mistakenly, _harrowingly_ , takes a sip out of Steve's.

It's not long afterward that two plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon are set on the table. Steve takes his usual seat and reaches for the syrup to adorn his pancakes with, while Tony lingers by his chair, eyeing the spot next to Steve's feet.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" Steve asks, watching him.

"Sure," Tony says after a beat, pulling his chair out.

Steve curls his hand around Tony's wrist. "I meant it when I told you that you don't have to change. You know that, don't you? You don't need to make me breakfast, you don't need to kneel next to me when we're eating." He pauses. "Was this a test?"

Tony doesn't really know himself and tells Steve so. "It wasn't on purpose?"

Steve nods slowly. "Okay. I think, okay, I can see why you might do that. Did I pass, at least?"

"With flying colours."

"That's reassuring."

"Yeah? Are you feeling nervous?" Steve nods and Tony places his elbows on the table, drops his face into his hands, feeling ridiculous at the strange nervousness that's been in him ever since he suddenly awoke. "Jesus, it's like we're teenagers or something. It's just breakfast, why are we so anxious?"

"I've always been anxious when it came to this," Steve says. Tony peeks at him from the gaps in between his fingers. "Could barely talk to a dame. Not that I'm calling you a dame and not that there's anything wrong with being a – okay, I'll just shut up." Steve shakes his head sheepishly and takes Tony's hands away to kiss him, just a brief touch of lips. "You taste like my coffee."

Tony pulls a face. "I know, I mixed up our mugs."

"I like it," Steve says, delightfully licking at the taste coating Tony's mouth. "You should do that more often."

Tony tries not to make his disappointment obvious when Steve goes back to his food and he busies himself with freely drizzling syrup over his own pancakes. "Only if you drink it with more sugar. Five spoons of sugar _minimum_."

"Having that much sugar is just wrong." Steve takes the first bite out of his pancake and hums in satisfaction. "This is really good."

"Of course it is. I made it. You don't need to sound _that_ surprised."

"Can I take back what I said about you not making breakfast?"

"Hell, no. You're feeding me for the rest of our lives. That is non-negotiable."

"Well, in that case," Steve holds up a forkful of pancake laced with syrup to Tony's mouth, "open up." Tony eyes it for a moment and then obligingly closes his lips around it, looking at Steve, who holds his gaze with warm, pleased eyes.

"You're right," Tony says. "This _is_ good."

"Not the only thing that's good," Steve says fondly.

The words are simple and perhaps he'll feel stupid afterwards, but they reach in nonetheless and soothe something in Tony that hasn't been soothed in a long time. It sighs in relief and so does Tony.

He manages to finish only one of the pancakes on his own plate before giving up and letting Steve feed him. "You're looking very happy there," he says, swallowing down another piece. "It can't be just because I'm letting you feed me."

"I've never been a fella who asked for a lot," Steve says. "I didn't want much, but same as any other Dom, I wanted someone to be mine, someone to take care of. I couldn't buy them fancy clothes or take them out to a lot of places and maybe I was too small to hold and protect them the way a Dom is supposed to, but I'd try anyway and I could at least do things like this for them to show that I cared."

Without the Bond, Tony knows he wouldn't have been able to parse the emotions that threaded through Steve's voice – the sadness at remembering his longing, the embarrassment at revealing it, the bright joy for finally having attained it. "We both know I've got enough fancy clothes to last me a lifetime," he tells Steve, offering him a smile. "I don't mind if we have pizza in the living room more often than eat out at an expensive restaurant and I'm Iron Man, I can protect myself, but I can think of some ways you could put those super soldier muscles to good use."

"What else would I do with them?" Steve says, eyes flickering towards the door. "Thor's coming."

Tony grins and adjusts the collar of his t-shirt. "Isn't it fine weather we're having today, Steve?"

"It sure is," Steve replies. "It's getting warmer, apparently. Hey, Thor, Tony made blueberries pancakes for breakfast today. Yeah, I know, shocked me, too, but don't worry, they're safe to eat."

+

The android on the table looks cold. Its skin is translucent, but there aren't any hints of the blue veins that would show themselves in a human and there are patches where the metal skeleton beneath peers through. Tony glances down the row of sleeping androids and wonders if they're dreaming of electric sheep.

"Checked around, no hidden floors, but there is a lab full of computers that you should check out," Clint says when he enters the lab. He stops at the sight of the androids, notching an arrow to his bow on instinct.

"They're not alive," Tony tells him, opening up the faceplate of his armour. The air is nearly icy and tainted with the faint smell of burnt metal.

"Fourteen," Clint counts, lowering his bow. He jerks his head towards the empty tables. "The missing androids are hidden elsewhere or do you reckon AIM just didn't have the time to make as many as they did before?"

"I'd place my bet on lack of time. Maybe they didn't expect us to move so fast. Even the androids they have here aren't complete, some of them don't have enough limbs."

"You get that, Cap?" Clint says into the comm. "Level Three has fourteen deactivated androids. No other life signs." 

"Got it," Steve replies. "Twelve androids on Level Two, also deactivated. I'm making my way down to Level Three right now. Widow?"

"Twelve androids, nothing else," Natasha says.

"Alright, you and Thor get down to Level Three," Steve says, pushing through the door into the lab a moment later. "The whole place is empty of people. They must've known we were coming."

"And they were clearly in a hurry if they left their androids behind," Tony says. "That's harsh, I would never leave my babies behind if I can help it. They get separation anxiety, you know."

"Indeed, we do," JARVIS says into Tony's ear. "Your presence is a comfort to us all."

Clint nods. "Could be that we have a spy within our ranks. SHIELD's not exactly infallible."

Natasha and Thor trudge into the lab, Natasha saying, "it could be a spy, but it could also be that they spotted some of our agents when we first investigated the area and put two and two together."

"We'll find out," Steve says. "At least we didn't come to Florida for nothing. We should dismantle these androids, make sure they can't be built again. How far are the SHIELD agents out?"

"JARVIS says two minutes."

"I half expect these metal creatures to wake suddenly from their slumber and attack us," Thor remarks. "They are truly lifelike."

Steve steps closer to the android Tony had been examining himself a few moments ago. "I'll admit AIM have outdone themselves there. It's hard to believe they're machines underneath."

"At our most basic level, humans are machines," Tony says. Steve will disagree, of course. He cannot see people in the same way, will not bare them down in the same clinical way Tony does.

"Humans or human bodies?" Steve gives him a side glance. "Our bodies may be like machines, but we still have our thoughts and emotions. We still have," he pauses in search of a word and decides on, "morality."

"What a very Steve Rogers thing to say." Tony points at the android with a metal finger. "Can I steal him? We kinda blew them all up to smithereens last time and I couldn't look at their insides."

"You're actually asking for permission?"

"Just because I usually don't doesn't mean I won't," Tony says, struggling to keep a flirtatious undertone out of his voice.

"Looking to adopt?" Natasha asks, a small, amused smirk quirking the edge of her mouth, and Tony remembers that they're not alone.

"Well, I was thinking JARVIS maybe wanted another sibling and I'm barren, apparently."

Steve raises an eyebrow at him and smiles that mischievous smile that tells Tony he's got something to say but won't because of the company. "There isn't much else for us to do here," he says. "Clint, Natasha, do one final check around just to make sure we didn't miss anything. Thor and me will meet SHIELD at the entrance and help them shift the androids. Tony, see what you can find in their computers."

"Aye, aye, cap'n." Tony sends a salute Steve's way and spins around to make his way out into the computer lab Clint had discovered.

They leave the facility an hour later, Tony having found nothing but wiped databases and the androids disassembled somewhat crudely into their individual parts. Outside, the rich, earthy smell rising from the swamp surrounding them is thick in the air. It could be much worse, Tony supposes, closing his faceplate.

"It's warmer outside," Clint says as he begins walking towards where they've hidden the quinjet. "What is up with that? I was freezing in there."

"You wouldn't have been if you weren't wearing sleeveless armour," Natasha retorts.

"Hey, if you got it, you flaunt it, Nat. I may not have guns like Cap's or Thor's, but they're still a beauty."

Tony grins. "Aw, is that what little Clint Barton tells himself every night before he goes to sleep?"

"Screw you, Stark, and the six thousand versions of your armour. They're like the movie series that never ends, the Saw of the technological world."

"Children," Steve cuts in. "Play nice. Let's get back to New York without anyone getting time-out."

"I'll see you guys in a few hours," Tony says and turns to Thor with a grin. "Hey, big guy, wanna race to the Helicarrier?"

Thor grins back, already spinning Mjölnir around in a fast circle. "You need not even ask."

Tony doesn't reply, just tells JARVIS to throw everything into the thrusters, and darts off into the sky. They remain patched into the comm for the return trip, so his cackling and the harmless threats he and Thor throw around are heard by the others, Clint occasionally throwing in comments.

It's a close race, but Tony wins it, diving into the Helicarrier victoriously first, Thor coming in a split second later. They almost land on each other and Thor's cape somehow gets trapped beneath Tony's leg, nearly ripping when Thor tries to get up.

"I didn't know I invited ten year olds on board," Fury says in greeting as they right themselves.

"Nick!" Tony crows, saccharine sweet, and takes his helmet off. "Ahoy there. I see you've been eagerly waiting for us."

"You need new material," Fury says. "The pirate thing is getting old."

"Are you encouraging Tony in his efforts to aggravate you?" Thor asks.

"I do believe the gentleman is," Tony says. "Well, now that I have your permission – thank you for that, by the way – I'll do my best to come up with new insults."

Fury just looks like he's wondering how he managed to end up here in life and walks away. Tony and Thor follow him to the conference room, where Fury leaves them waiting for the rest of the team as if leaving behind children in detention. The half an hour it takes for Steve, Natasha, and Clint to arrive has Tony grabbing the designs for the quinjet and furiously making modifications to enhance its speed.

"Can we do the shortest debrief ever?" Tony asks when they're all together again. Fury takes up position at the head of the table, hands crossed behind him in what Tony is beginning to think of his standard pose. "'Cause I want to take one of those androids and do an autopsy on it," Tony says. "You've got a shitload of them now, don't be selfish with your toys."

Fury gives him an unimpressed look. "Remind me again, Stark, who here is the one who denies anyone the chance to look at his suit?"

"Point to Fury," Clint mutters.

"I'm not above just making off into the night with one, you know," Tony says.

"I do, unfortunately," Fury says. "I'll have one sent to you. Now. Captain Rogers, if you want to begin?"

Tony settles himself against the wall, content to let Steve talk away as he tinkers with projections and reads through progress reports from R&D, only looking up when there's a lull in the conversation around him.

"A spy?" Fury repeats.

"It's a valid possibility," Steve replies.

"It can't be a coincidence that the place has been abandoned and Tony didn't find anything on their computers," Clint adds. "I say we look into it."

Fury considers it for a moment. Tony wants to laugh – _the_ spy might have a spy problem. "We'll check out all the agents involved in our investigations into AIM," Fury says, nodding at Natasha and Clint, who clearly understand it as their next task. "Stark can amuse himself with his new pet android, but that's all we can do for the time being."

Tony takes that as a sign that the meeting is over and moves towards the door. He pauses when he notices Steve is still sitting down, looking contemplative.

"Something on your mind, Captain?" Fury asks.

"There is," Steve says a little curtly, not at Fury but at whatever it is that's occupying his thoughts. "We're dealing with an organisation that has a more than unhealthy interest in technology and science and is no doubt searching for bigger, better weapons to build than androids." He looks at Tony and Tony feels the sudden urge to go over to him. "To get those weapons, who do you think AIM is eventually going to turn its attention to, if it hasn't already?"

The ensuing silence holds only for a few moments before Tony breaks it. "You think they're going to come after me," he says.

"The suit is a work of genius," Steve states. "It's gained a significant amount of attention right from the beginning and you're the only one who knows all of its secrets."

"He's right," Natasha says. "There's a lot of people out there who want to pick at your brain, Tony, and AIM is full of them."

Fury glances between Steve and Tony carefully. "If you suspect they're going to go after Stark eventually, what do you propose to do?"

"I'm not getting taken off the field," Tony says immediately, needing Steve to understand this. "You can't do that, even if your speculation is right and even if we are—" He stops abruptly, aware of all the eyes watching attentively, and says again, "you can't do that."

"I didn't say I was going to," Steve says. "Like you said, it's just a speculation. Just in case, I think we should be extra careful."

"That sounds reasonable, Captain," Thor says, but Tony's still staring at Steve.

"So long as I'm not being benched," he says tersely. He glances around the room quickly, catching no one's eyes. "With that said, I'm heading back to the Tower."

"I'll see you there," Steve says evenly and Tony knows they're going to talk about this where no one else can listen in.

He heads out of the door and then he's back in the air with barely a thought to it. He can't imagine having this freedom taken away from him or sitting on the sidelines as the rest of the team went on missions without him. Deliberately, he stays among the clouds for a longer time than usual, arcing across the sky like a rogue, flamed bird.

When he does finally land, he descends into the workshop as soon as he is free of the suit and is unsurprised to find Steve sitting inside. Steve isn't displeased, Tony can sense that much, but he's frowning at the ground and it leaves Tony confused and unbalanced. The idea of having an argument – it's only been a few days since they officially got together – sits like a heavy stone in his gut now more than ever and he wants it gone.

He knew how to behave in these situations when Obie was still his Dom. He knew that he had to kneel and keep his eyes on the floor, wait patiently for Obie to speak first and tell him what he's done wrong. But Steve is the furthest thing to Obie and Tony is unsure in a way he rarely is in life.

"Sir?" JARVIS says gently.

"I'm fine," Tony says. He walks in, opting to do what he is used to.

"No," Steve says, stopping him halfway when Tony begins to drop to his knees. "This is your workshop, you don't kneel here. Just," he pulls Tony in between his legs and takes up both of his hands, "stand here." Tony obeys and waits silently. "You're annoyed at me."

"I wouldn't say _annoyed_ , exactly," Tony says haltingly, trying not to get distracted by the circles Steve is rubbing into the back of his knuckles. "I just need you to promise me that even if there's a threat, you're not going to keep me off the field just because we're in a relationship now. I can handle myself, Steve. You know I can."

Steve presses his lips together in a thin, grim line. Tony can see him war against his natural protective instincts, enhanced a hundred fold by the Bond. "I do know that," Steve says eventually. "And I wasn't – I'm _not_ going to keep you off the field. I know I wouldn't stand for it if anyone tried that on me, so why the hell would I do it to you?"

"Good," Tony says. "Glad we sorted that out."

Steve sighs, standing up and pulling Tony closer until their foreheads press together. "This isn't about whether or not you can handle yourself. You can't blame me for wanting you safe, Tony. Don't do that, don't make me feel bad for that."

"I don't want you to feel bad, that's not my intention," Tony says. "I want you safe, too. I want all of us safe. But I can't be barred from missions just because you're feeling overprotective over your sub."

"You won't be. This team needs Iron Man just as much as it needs the rest of us. The people we protect need Iron Man." Steve thumbs the outline of Tony's goatee. "This doesn't count as a fight, right? There wasn't any real argument."

"I think we're safe. We can always have our first argument tomorrow."

Steve manages a smile. "We should go up to the living room, the others are having a few drinks."

"A drink sounds good. And food. JARVIS, order something, will you?"

"Of course, sir. Any particular preferences today?"

"Chinese?" Tony asks Steve as they walk out. Steve shrugs. "Chinese, then. I feel like watching another round of Steve versus chopsticks."

They find Thor and Clint on the floor, competing in a round of Mario Kart Wii, while Natasha has commandeered the bar, pulling out one bottle after another with barely a glance at the labels.

"You are both in good spirits," Thor says delightedly when he sees them. "We had feared that it would not be so, but our worries were thankfully in vain."

"It had all the makings of an argument waiting to happen and yet, no kaboom," Clint says. "You two are – getting sickeningly good at handling your problems now."

"Keep talking, Clint, and you're not getting any of the itty bitty spare ribs I had JARVIS order," Tony says. Natasha approaches him with a glass of – Tony isn't sure what, really, but he drinks it anyway, fairly sure it's safe, and he thinks he blacks out for a moment. "Potent," he croaks and Natasha smiles, handing Steve a glass, too.

"You will not be victorious today, Clint Barton," Thor declares, wielding the Wii Remote as if it's his hammer. "One of our fellow comrades shall have to avenge you after we have done battle."

That fellow comrade, as it turns out ten minutes later, is Tony, who gets distracted from his food by Thor's utter ruthlessness. "Shit, Clint, you've unleashed a monster on us, who told you to show Thor how to play this?"

"It wasn't me," Clint says miserably from where he's sprawled over Natasha's lap, sulking in defeat. "It was Natasha, because she's evil and not even sorry for it."

Thor wins again despite Tony's valiant efforts and in his celebration, his arm shoots out and shoves Tony a little too hard. Caught off guard, Tony tips over to the side and the dog tags rattle as they slip out. Tony throws them back in hurriedly.

"What was that?" Clint asks, bemused.

"What was what? Thor pushed me, I fell over."

"No, not that. There was a...sound. Did no one else hear it?"

"I didn't hear anything," Steve says innocently. He frowns, pretending to listen out for the noise, and then shakes his head. "Sorry, Clint."

Tony tries not to snort and give it away.

"It is the necklace that Tony has been gifted with," Thor states absentmindedly, throwing out red Koopa shells at Tony's Yoshi.

"You've seen it?" Tony asks, surprised. On the screen, Yoshi barrels into a split banana and veers off to the side of the track.

"Aye, I have glimpsed it on occasion," Thor answers with the same absentmindedness.

"You're not the kind of guy to wear jewellery," Natasha says. "So, this is not only a new occurrence, but a special one. This is—" She looks sharply at Steve, who is very much absorbed in eating his vegetable spring rolls.

Tony drops the Wii Remote and pulls the dog tags out. "Since the secret's out and all."

"Dog tags," Clint says, pointing at Tony's neck first and then at Steve. "Soldier. _Dating_."

"Full sentences, Clint," Natasha says. "I know you're capable of those, I've heard you."

"Are these of particular value to a warrior?" Thor asks, abandoning the game now that Tony isn't paying any more attention to it.

"It's something you get if you're in the military," Steve explains. "Has your name and some other details on it to help with identifying wounded or dead soldiers."

"Wow," Clint says. "So you two finally got together. I thought it was going to take until season seven, at least. Good on you guys." His words are flippant enough, but his grin is sincere from corner to corner.

"I'm disappointed, Cap," Natasha says. "Here I thought you couldn't lie. How do I trust you ever again?"

"Next, you're going to tell us you don't like apple pie," Clint says with a snort.

"Clint," Steve says seriously, setting his chopsticks down and looking him square in the eyes. "I thought you knew that already. I _don't_ like apple pie."

"You're shitting me," Clint says. Tony stamps down on his laughter, but Steve's expression is still perfectly straight. "No, you _are_ shitting me, aren't you?"

"Clint," Steve says again, holding onto his gravitas before breaking out in a smile. "Yeah, I'm just kidding. I love apple pie."

"Shit, Tasha, we need to take this guy on undercover ops, put those skills to good use."

"This is most wonderful news, my friends," Thor says, throwing one arm around Steve and the other around Tony, bringing them all together. "We must celebrate with a feast and much wine."

"You mean to say the food we have now and Natasha's unholy concoctions aren't enough?" Tony asks, patting at Thor's back until he releases them.

"Nay, we must have a grander celebration and the lady Pepper must be invited!"

"Told you they'd want to throw a party," Steve mutters.

"We _are_ awesome enough to warrant one," Tony mutters back.

"I reckon you deserve it," Natasha says, smiling. She gently bumps her hand against Steve's and Tony understands what she's leaving unsaid. "Besides, I'll take any excuse for a party and more of my unholy concoctions."

"Now, it is only Bruce who is without a companion," Thor says.

"Do you think he'll get pissed that he wasn't here for this wonderful moment and Hulk out?" Clint asks.

"Somehow, I doubt that," Steve says. He places his arm around Tony's shoulder and Tony fits into his side, a puzzle coming together finally. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References include: "clear, azure eyes" from Tony fanboying over Steve in Tales of Suspense Volume 1 #1, Truman Capote's _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ and its 1961 film adaptation in which Audrey Hepburn is Holly Golightly, and _The English Patient_. Enjoy!
> 
> ALSO. If any of my readers would like to know when I've updated but don't have an ao3 account to subscribe with, then feel free to follow my [tumblr](http://quixotesque.tumblr.com).

"Audrey Hepburn."

"Katharine Hepburn."

"Audrey Hepburn."

"Katharine Hepburn."

"Seriously, Rhodey? You're gonna fight me on this one? _Audrey Hepburn_. I would've let her marry me for my money in a minute any day."

"Yeah, Tony, seriously, _Katharine Hepburn_. And you told _me_ that you'd let me marry you for your money in a minute. You told Pepper the same, too."

"And neither of you took me up on it," Tony says in mock disappointment. "The more fool you."

"I don't know about Pepper, but I just wasn't ready for the commitment. Feel free to ask again," Rhodey says.

"I hate to break it to you, but I don't think that's possible anymore, pudding plum," Tony says. He keeps his gaze firmly focused on the road, but thinks of blue eyes and sun-kissed hair and the dog tags hidden under his shirt.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Classified."

Rhodey makes a sound of suspicion. "There's something different about you, you know."

Tony does know. He's completely at ease, the tension weighing him down carved out of his bones and leaving him light, almost buoyant, and he knows the reason why. "New skincare regimen. I was hoping you'd notice. Tell me I'm glowing."

"My eyes can barely look at you," Rhodey says, tilting his head up towards the sun. There's warmth settling back into the air, the wind not so much a harsh whip anymore but sneaking playfully under Tony's clothes. They're on their way to pick up Pepper from her office and then head onto a bar to have a few drinks together.

"You're coming over to the Tower afterwards, right?" Tony asks.

"I like how you phrase that as a question when you actually mean the opposite," Rhodey says. "What, your superhero buddies haven't taken up all the space?"

"Feeling neglected? Don't worry, Rhodey, I still love you best," Tony says, patting Rhodey's knee. "You know there's always room for you in the Tower."

Rhodey grins and lifts his head as they come to a halt in front of Stark Industries. It doesn't take long for Pepper to come down, but she looks tired, a weary droop to her shoulders and a sigh on her lips.

"You don't look so good," Tony says.

"That's exactly what a lady wants to hear," Pepper replies, climbing into the back. She leans forwards and plants a light kiss on Rhodey's cheek. "It's wonderful to see you again, Rhodey."

"You too, Pepper. Tony's right, though, you look like you've had a long day."

"You two are full of compliments today. It's been a long week. I need a drink and I need one very soon."

"Your wish, my command," Tony says, exchanging concerned looks with Rhodey and resuming driving again. "Is there anything you need me to do to lighten the load?"

"Everything is sorted for now, but I'll keep your offer in mind. You might have a trip to Japan sometime soon, I'll let you know when it's confirmed."

When Pepper massages at her temple, Rhodey turns down the volume of the music pouring out of the speaker until it is almost lost beneath the whine of the road. "How are you and Happy doing?"

"We're doing as good as can be. He's come down with a food bug and is spending the day next to the toilet, otherwise he'd be here, too."

"Let me guess," Tony says, "he wanted to come in for work, anyway."

"Heaven forbid he misses a day," Pepper says with that familiar tone of fondness and exasperation they've all received from her. "I was going to give tonight a miss, but he said he wouldn't agree to stay at home if I did. He honed his stubbornness from dealing with you, Tony."

"Hey," Tony objects. "I was and always am on my best behaviour, Happy got nothing from me other than lots of coffee and burgers."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, pal," Rhodey says gently, as if Tony is particularly delusional and Rhodey has to handle him carefully.

"Shut up, Rhodey, or I'll tell Pepper you steal her trashy romance novels."

"That's you?" Pepper asks sharply and Rhodey groans.

"Whoops," Tony says without an ounce of repentence.

It's a Thursday night, so the bar isn't as busy as Tony knows it can be. They take up seats at the back where it's more secluded and order their drinks, Pepper convincing them to choose from the more outrageously named cocktails. Tony and Rhodey decide to let her have her way tonight and only hold token protests.

"It's been a while since we did this," Rhodey says. "I've missed it."

"The outpouring of emotion is meant to come _after_ we've started drinking, Rhodey," Tony says.

"Just because you don't say it doesn't mean you don't think it," Rhodey points out.

"He's got you there, Tony," Pepper says. "Don't even deny it."

Tony holds his hands up in an appeasing gesture. "Fine, fine, I secretly weep every night because we don't get to do this often."

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Rhodey says.

Tony smiles seemingly grudgingly and waits until after their drinks have arrived to say, "so, I have something to tell you guys."

Pepper and Rhodey look at each other, holding a silent discussion over what they expect him to say next, and then look at him. "A good something or a bad something?" Pepper asks, apparently braving it. 

"A good something," Tony says. Deliberately, he waits again until they both have their glasses tipped into their mouths and continues with, "I'm dating Steve." Rhodey instantly chokes on his drink and Pepper makes a sharp noise of shock, swallowing quickly. "Surprise?" Tony adds, playing at innocence.  

"Tony!" Pepper exclaims, almost carelessly setting her glass down and leaning across the table to wrap her arms around him. "I can't believe this, this is great!"

"You're not going to make me talk about feelings now, are you?" Tony asks, Pepper's laugh trickling into his ear before she returns her seat.

"Yes," Rhodey says, his mouth making odd shapes as if trying to decide between grinning and staying open in surprise. "Yes, we are. Starting with when the hell did this happen?"

"Eh, a month ago. There's going to be a party, Thor's the organiser. You're both invited."

" _A month_?" Pepper repeats shrilly. "And you're only telling us _now_?"

"Remind me again when I found out about you and Happy?"

Pepper rolls her eyes and Rhodey, his face set in his _I must fulfill my duties as a best friend_ expression, asks, "he treatin' you right?"

"No," Tony says. "I fear he's got terrible designs on my virtue. What ever shall I do?"

"Hey, it's a valid question."

"He's treating me just fine, Rhodey," Tony says. "It is a little odd, though."

"Him treating you fine is a little odd?" Pepper says, arching an eyebrow primly.

"No, of course not. What I mean is, I'm still used to the way Obie did things even though I'm trying not to be." Several times, he finds himself kneeling when Steve doesn't want him to or waiting expectantly for a reprimand that Steve sees no reason for giving, and he doesn't know what frustrates him more – the expectations left behind from Obie or Steve refusing to let go of his steady-handed manner. "Sometimes, I want him to get angry at me for being like that, and he, he gets annoyed, but not at me, at Obie, and then I'm glad it's not at me. Like I said, a little odd."

"It'll take some time," Pepper says softly. Her eyes drop down as she sips at her drink, the blue semicircles painted on the back of her eyelids peacock bright.

"Am I allowed to ask why you changed your mind?" Rhodey says.

Steve has given him several reasons, but Tony picks the simplest one. "He earned my trust."

Rhodey nods approvingly. "That's a pretty good reason."

"What about you, Rhodey?" Pepper asks. "Have you got your eye on anyone?"

Rhodey laughs and it's not a wholly happy sound. "I don't think that's a good idea, do you? I'm away too often and for too long to keep any relationship going. Tony should know, he's always complaining about being the forgotten wife."

"It is quite the lonely existence," Tony says soberly. "You can't stay single forever, though."

"No, I know. Just, maybe for now."

Pepper smiles and squeezes Rhodey's hand where it rests on the table. "Well, you still have us."

"Guys, I think I'm tearing up at this show of solidarity," Tony says. "I blame it on these girly cocktails Pepper's made us drink."

"This only means one thing," Pepper says. " _More_ cocktails."

"Orange juice for me, thanks," Tony says. "That'd significantly lessen the chances of me driving the car into a pole when we're going back." He gleefully notes that Rhodey's expression as Pepper orders him a Naked Waiter is slightly pained.

By the time they leave, Pepper's laughter is flowing easier even if she does still look tired. She checks up on Happy as Tony drives them all back to the Tower, sharing the latest update on Tony's love life. Happy manages a few words of congratulations before he groans and has to hang up in favour of retreating into the bathroom. Pulling into the private garage, Tony says, "the Twin Terrors are sticking it to the man in some secret location. Steve," he glances briefly at his watch, "should be back from his art class by now and is probably exchanging tales of valour with Thor. You go on ahead, Pep, I've got to give Rhodey his long overdue birthday present."

"Don't take too long," Pepper tells them, stepping out of the car and heading towards the Tower's entrance.

Rhodey is too distracted to reply, his gaze affixed to the far end of the garage where a large, white cloth is draped over the outline of a car. "Tony, you haven't bought me a car, have you?"

Tony grins and trudges over to the hidden car, Rhodey following like he is helpless to do anything else. "You're going to love this. You're going to swear fealty to me afterwards and name your firstborn after me when you see it."

"You _have_ bought me a car."

"Ready?" Tony asks, grabbing a hold of the cloth and giving it a yank when Rhodey nods. "Et voila."

Rhodey stares. Tony waits patiently, because he knows that, in moments like this, Rhodey needs time to buffer, and minutes later, Rhodey has loaded enough to quietly say, "Tony."

"Yeah."

"I don't recognise this model. You didn't buy this, did you."

"That, I did not, no."

"You _built_ this."

"Yeah."

"You built me a car."

"Sure, I did. You do know that I also built War Machine, right? That was much harder than a car, like, it took me an extra fifteen minutes or something." Tony places a hand on the hood of the car. The metal, silver like War Machine, is gleaming and cool beneath his hand, the whole design sleek and elegant, not at all as flashy as Tony himself prefers, but perfect for Rhodey. "Ask me how fast it is."

"How fast is it?"

"Two hundred and sixty eight mph." Rhodey makes a soundless noise of shock and Tony grins broadly. "I take it the car's a hit, then?"

Rhodey lunges and almost smothers him in a tight hug. " _Yes_ , fuck yes, man. Thank you, you crazy, amazing fool. How am I meant to top this when your birthday rolls around?"

"You don't, that's the whole point."

"Wrong answer, Tony. You're meant to say "it's alright, Rhodey, even a smile from you would complete me". I hereby swear fealty to you, anyway."

"Don't forget about your firstborn," Tony reminds him. "Alright, Rhodey, I appreciate the love, but I need to breathe sometime soon. It's kind of an important thing."

Rhodey holds on for a few moments longer before he lets Tony go in favour of dropping to a crouch beside his car. "Hi, baby," he whispers, caressing its door. "Meet your new daddy."

"Pepper's right," Tony says after a few moments. "It is kinda creepy when we do that."

Rhodey blithely ignores him and continues with his caressing. "We need to take her out for a spin tomorrow. Clear your schedule, Tony."

"Already done. Now, do you think you can tear yourself away?"

"But I just saw it. Can't I stay a little longer?"

Tony pats him sympathetically. "I'd love to let you, but there's a woman upstairs who likes to use her heels as weapons and you know I'm not talking about the Black Widow."

Rhodey gives the car one final stroke and grudgingly follows Tony into the Tower. "Hey, you ever thought about designing a car that ran on repulsors?"

In the lift, Tony presses for the communal floor. "I have, but repulsor technology is something I'm very reluctant to share with others."

Rhodey nods understandingly. "Gets into the wrong hands and it can get very ugly very quickly."

"Yeah. Steve's got me thinking about flying cars, anyway. He thinks the future isn't so great if it hasn't got one of those yet."

"You know, that's a damn good point. Why the hell _don't_ we have flying cars?"

Tony grins. "I'm working on it. Speaking of Steve, JARVIS, where is he?"

"Captain Rogers is in the kitchen."

"Pepper and Thor?"

"The living room. They have asked to remain undisturbed."

"That does absolutely nothing to convince me not to disturb them."

"Their conversation concerns a topic that requires Ms. Potts' delicate touch," JARVIS says. "While you are in possession of many admirable qualities, delicacy is not amongst them, sir."

"JARVIS, my man, I have missed you," Rhodey says laughingly. "Is it me or does he bully you all the time, Tony?"

"It's a hard knock life," Tony says. "I bet you Steve's making those ridiculously large and ridiculously healthy sandwiches again. He takes Bruce's healthy eating advice more seriously than Bruce does."

"Didn't you used to drink chlorophyll at one point?" Rhodey asks.

Tony opens his mouth to retaliate, but then closes it. "Touché. Warn me now if you're going to faint when you see Steve."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tony," Rhodey says far too quickly.

"Hey, it's a valid question," Tony says in perfect imitation of Rhodey earlier on in the evening. Gradually, they approach the kitchen. "You are meeting your childhood hero, after all. Oh, he knows your rank so he'll probably salute you."

"Not if I beat him to it."

"Do you know how weird it is that my best friend is fan-boying over my Dom?" Rhodey at least has the decency to look embarrassed. "I'll forgive you if you promise not to tell him any stories about MIT."

"But some of that's gold."

"I can and will take back the car," Tony threatens.

"Who knows anything about you at MIT? I sure as hell don't."

" _Good boy_ ," Tony says and earns himself a punch on the arm just as they enter the kitchen. "Hey, Steve."

"Hey," Steve says, looking up from the sandwich he's neatly cutting into diagonal halves, a whole plate full of sandwiches next to him.

"So, the ever elusive Rhodey's finally dropped by. He's feeling a little shy right now – _ow_ , shit, that hurt, Rhodey."

Steve smiles at Rhodey before saluting him. Tony reckons that despite what Rhodey reassured him, Rhodey is a few more moments closer to swooning. "Colonel Rhodes. I was wondering when I'd finally get to meet the other half of the duo that keeps Tony sane."

Rhodey promptly mirrors Steve's salute. "You don't need to salute me, you, you're Captain America."

"Last I checked, a Lieutenant Colonel ranks higher than a Captain. And out of the uniform, I'm just Steve."

"You're no ordinary captain, Captain. It's great to meet you properly. Call me Jim or Rhodey, either is fine."

"Don't call him Jim," Tony says. "Jim only sounds right if it's preceded by "uncle"."

"Rhodey, then," Steve says. "Tony's told me a lot about you, he's your biggest fan."

"You know I am. Got a shirt with your face on it, Rhodey. I wear it to bed every night."

Rhodey smiles tightly, his eye twitching in what Tony decides to christen as the _you're embarrassing me in front of my childhood hero_ expression. "Tony can't stop going on about you," he says. "How good-looking you are, how kind, how funny. According to him, there are deserts out there that want to be as dry as your humour."

"No such words have ever left my mouth, except for the desert thing because that, you gotta admit, is true. Otherwise, don't listen to him, Steve, Rhodey's just seeking retribution for what I just said about the shirt."

Steve, thankfully, decides to humour him. "So," he says to Rhodey, "I hear I didn't really make a good first impression."

Rhodey pays Tony a sidelong glance. "That was some time ago, Steve, and I don't think either of you were in a good situation back then. But I hear you've been making him happy, so it looks to me like you've more than made up for it. What matters now is that he stays happy."

"I'll do everything I can to make sure he does."

"That's really sappy, guys," Tony says, swiping up a sandwich from the plate and continuing through a mouthful of bread, "my life is not a rom com and you are not my Hugh Grant, Steve."

Steve shrugs casually. "Well, I do prefer Colin Firth."

Rhodey stands up straighter abruptly, as if hit by a sudden realisation. He deliberately catches Steve's eyes and asks in a gravely serious tone, "Audrey Hepburn or Katharine Hepburn?"

"Choose wisely, Steve," Tony says. "Remember your loyalties."

"I don't know," Steve says, eyebrows crinkling as he mulls it over. "They're both great, but...I like Katharine Hepburn more, I think?"

Rhodey snickers over Tony's protests and takes a sandwich when Steve offers him one. "You and me, we're gonna get on like a house on fire."

Tony watches the conspiratorial look they exchange and feels obligated to loudly regret ever introducing Steve to Rhodey, but then Rhodey grins at him and Steve places a hand lightly covered in bread crumbs over Tony's mouth and Tony's pretence falls apart before it can even begin. He isn't surprised when Steve and Rhodey begin to rib each other over whether the Army or the Air Force is better or when Pepper and Thor join them and there are suddenly arm wrestling matches between Steve, Thor, and Rhodey.

Afterwards, when the hour is close to midnight, Pepper has gone home, and it's _Rhodey_ who is exchanging tales of valour with Thor, Steve follows Tony into the workshop, where War Machine, dented and scorched in some places, waits to be repaired. Tony wants to at least have a look before he works on it in the morning.

"JARVIS, have you finished scanning the suit?"

"Yes, sir. I'll display the results now."

Steve leans against a workbench, arms crossed over his chest, and says, "Rhodey's a real nice guy. He reminds me a bit of Bucky."

Tony is just glad that it's not a sad reminder, that Steve is smiling as he says it. "Yeah? How's that?"

"The arm wrestling, for one thing. Even though he knew he couldn't beat me after the Serum, Bucky would never stop trying."

"Says the guy who doesn't know how to give up, either. What else?"

"How much he cares for you. You've been friends for a long time, haven't you? And he's still here. He won't abandon you."

"No, he won't. I thought he would, I tried to force him to a few years ago, things weren't going so well for me and I was – well, my point is, he could've walked out on me back then and I wouldn't have blamed him, but he didn't."

"I have a question," Steve says, "but if I ask it, I'll ruin the mood."

"You told me that if I had anything to ask, I should ask it even if I think you might not want to hear it," Tony says. "I know that the rule is for my benefit, but it's only fair if it applies to both of us, isn't it?"

Steve still seems hesitant to continue, but eventually, he asks, "do you think you'll ever tell Rhodey and Pepper what happened?" Tony pauses in the middle of inspecting the damage done to War Machine's hull pressure transducers. He glances towards the entrance of the workshop, as if he might find Rhodey or Pepper standing there. "I'm not telling you that you should," Steve continues. "I know it took you a lot of effort to tell me. I was just wondering."

"Honestly? I don't know. I tried when Obie died. It was over and I thought I could make myself tell Pepper or Rhodey. Get drunk and just let it all out. But. I didn't. I couldn't. So I thought, maybe, what I needed was to talk to someone. A therapist. I had JARVIS make an appointment, make several appointments, actually, but I cancelled each one. I was – too ashamed to go." Hastily, Tony adds, "not that I'm saying it's shameful to see a therapist, I know you have one and that's completely fine."

"I know what you meant, Tony. Do you think you'll reconsider a therapist?"

"I don't know that, either," Tony says. "I don't think I would've told _you_ if you hadn't walked into my room that night."

"You don't know how glad I am that I did," Steve says and even now, months later, the relief is still thick in his voice, clogging his throat.

"I do, actually," Tony says and doesn't elaborate, doesn't add _because I feel exactly the same_.

The way Steve's face softens tells him that he understands. Steve steps up beside him and picks up War Machine's gauntlet. "So, this is War Machine. Tell me about her."

"For starters," Tony begins, leaning to the side until their arms are pressed together, "she's not nearly as beautiful as _my_ suit and if you want to get laid anytime soon, you'd agree..."

+

The schematic open on Tony's tablet has barely changed. It's been an hour or perhaps longer – he can't seem to remember when he first came to Steve's suite or when he settled on the floor of the small living room, his head pillowed on Steve's thigh. Lodged in tranquillity, he doesn't particularly care, either. Steve has several books on neoclassical art open on the table in front of him, his sketchbook among them, and it's only because of his reluctance to move that Tony refrains from asking to look through it.

Sitting in his hair, Steve's fingers come to life every few minutes, his blunt nails gently scratching Tony's scalp or caressing his nape, drawing quiet sighs out of Tony. Once in a while, Steve speaks, his quiet muttering sometimes containing names of artists that breathed centuries ago and sometimes inquiring after Tony's comfort. "Feeling sleepy?" he asks after a while.

Tony hums contentedly and then remembers that he's meant to answer with words. "A little, I guess?" He scoots forward on the pillow beneath his knees when Steve pulls him nearer. Steve's hand is only loosely embracing his nape, but the touch and their close proximity to each other make it feel like Tony is being shielded somehow, kept safe.

Steve tilts Tony's face upwards and Tony blinks at him, starting to come out of the daze he has fallen into. "You're so sweet right now, looking at me like that," Steve says, stroking his cheek with a thumb.  

Tony feels something wonderfully pleasant slowly course through him. He smiles, somewhat shy under Steve's fond regard, and belatedly notices that the books Steve had been perusing through are all closed. "Oh, you've finished reading?"

"For now, yeah. JARVIS, can you dim the lights?" The room silently falls into a muted gold that makes everything seem warmer. It melts into Steve's hair, softens his jaw. "Up here," Steve says and Tony knows to place his tablet on the table and sit astride Steve's thighs.

"I'm starting to think you're attached to this position," Tony says, arms falling around Steve's shoulders.

"It's easier to touch you as much as I want like this," Steve says. His hands prove his point, travelling up and down Tony's back, sliding to the front and splaying over his rib cage as if to cup everything inside Tony in his palms, and then slinking down to trace the bend of his legs on either side of Steve's waist.

Tony thinks there's more to it than that. He thinks that there's something Steve is deliberately leaving unspoken in how he lets Tony be the one looking down, but then Steve takes Tony's face in his hands, sips at his mouth in languid kisses that have no intention of going any further, and Tony ceases thinking completely. Necking, really, is the only word for what they're doing, and Tony may not be a teenager anymore, but he doesn't mind Steve's lips and tongue diligently leeching all the solidity out of his bones.

"Your hair is getting long," Steve says when he has Tony slumped against him.

"I thought you might like something to hold onto," Tony says, only half joking. Without any product to hold it up, his hair falls messily over his forehead.

Steve grips the hair at Tony's nape, tugging experimentally. Tony's head drops back with little resistance and Steve noses along the exposed throat until he reaches the dip in between the collarbones. "What do you call the place at the base of the throat?"

Tony's small breath of laughter is directed at the ceiling. They had watched _The English Patient_ tonight. "Suprasternal notch."

Steve leaves a wet kiss there. "This is mine."

"Zero points for originality. You're stealing Ralph Fiennes' lines."

"Mouthy," Steve chides teasingly, pulling aside the frayed collar of Tony's t-shirt and the rattling dog tags to sharply nip at the junction where his shoulder meets his neck.

Tony forces his hands to stay down so that they don't hold Steve's mouth against his skin, his fingers digging firmly into Steve's shoulders. "Please," he murmurs, relishing the ache left behind by Steve's teeth, "mark me, you haven't yet." Steve complies, a bruise blooming beneath his sucking mouth, and Tony shifts in Steve's lap, presses closer, swallows down the sounds tickling his throat.

With a hunger he's finally allowing himself to indulge in, Tony's thoughts have been circling around the acres of untouched skin that Steve hides behind his clothes. He wonders more often now about the sounds that Steve might make if Tony was to drop to his knees for him, take Steve's cock in his mouth, feel the weight and throb of it on his tongue while Steve tells him how good he is, how perfect, in a voice husky with desire.

"Don't you want more from me?" Tony asks before he can stop himself. "Because I can give you more. I'll be so good for you, Steve, _so good_."

Steve drags his lips away from the fresh mark, his grip on Tony's hips tightening once. "You're already good for me."

"But I can do more," Tony insists. "My gag reflex, it's nonexistent, you can fuck my throat as hard as you want, I'll take it, I'll—"

" _Tony_ ," Steve says, his voice hitting the perfect note to make Tony fall quiet, "hey, we're not in any rush." Tony goes limp and briefly closes his eyes. "Look at me, Tony. Tell me what's wrong."

The denial that jumps to the tip of his tongue disappears when Tony looks and is pinned down by Steve's unwavering gaze. "I don't want you to think I'm going to break if you fuck me or tell me to suck you off."

"I don't think that at all." Quietly, apprehensively, Steve asks, "have I done something that makes you think I want sex from you right now? Or is it that you don't enjoy just being together like this?"

"No, I do, really, and there's nothing you've done to make me think I should offer sex. It's just that – shouldn't I? Don't you want to? I want to please you. I know the things I'm good at and sex is one of those. It's not like I brought anyone home with me for any other reason and Obie wasn't exactly into cuddling."

The frustrated lines that Tony is beginning to associate with mentions of Obie appear on Steve's face; he wants to rub them away with his hands the way his mother said she used to do for him whenever she caught him in a nightmare. "Sex isn't necessary for you to please me," Steve says firmly. "I don't want you to _ever_ feel that way. If we have sex, it has to be for yourself, too."

"What if I want both, then? What if I want to go further because I want to please you _and_ because I want it?"

"That's entirely different. Only a crazy man would say no to you." Steve touches the mark his mouth had left, his lips parting like he wants to place them over the bruised skin again, and Tony's breath hitches slightly. "I know relationships move faster these days, but I want to take my time with you." He looks like he wants to add more, but suddenly glances towards the door. "My phone's ringing."

"What? Who'd call you now? It's – JARVIS, what time is it?"

"One fifteen a.m., sir. It appears to be Dr. Banner."

"It's in your bedroom, right? I'll grab it," Tony says, separating himself from Steve's warmth with obvious reluctance. He hurries into Steve's bedroom and finds the phone on the bedside table, Bruce's faintly smiling face on the screen. "Bruce? Is something wrong? You're calling - _what_? Really?"

"Put it on speaker," Steve says, tucking Tony against him again when he returns to the living room.

"—you answering Steve's phone?" Bruce is asking. "Are you two up late brooding together again?"

"We do not brood together," Tony replies. "Sometimes, we have a drink. Watch a film. When we're feeling particularly lively, we even play cards. You haven't seen shit until you've seen Steve play Go Fish; he'll wipe the floor with you and your children."

"Don't listen to him, Bruce, I'll do no such thing with your children. Hi, by the way. How are you?"

"Panicking," Bruce says. Guiltiness creeps into his voice. "Sorry about calling now, but it was either that or drive myself crazy thinking about Betty."

"Betty's there," Tony explains before Steve can ask.

"She's in a hotel close to where I'm staying and she came to see me today and she's going to drop by tomorrow. How does she even know I'm here? Did you guys tell her?" Bruce sounds almost hysterical.

"Woah, okay, calm down there," Tony says. "This isn't the end of the world."

"Relax, Bruce," Steve says and Tony hears _Dom_ in how Steve's voice has gone low and reassuring, a hint of command in it. Instinctively, Tony ducks his head and presses his face into Steve's neck.  "It's alright. You can do this." Bruce's sigh is accompanied by a muffled sound; Tony imagines him throwing himself down on his bed. "I've never even met her," Steve continues, raising an eyebrow when Tony winces. "But that's not important now, anyway. She's there, nothing you can do about it."

"What do I say to her?"

"This isn't anything you can't handle," Tony says. "Just talk to her like you normally would've done before the Hulk ever happened. Come on, you can't tell me that you don't miss her."

"Tony's right," Steve says. "Remember our New Year's Resolution?"

"Take more chances."

"I did," Tony says. "It's looking good so far."

Bruce is silent and the distant voice of a city going about its day comes through in his stead. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"It does if you're thinking I'm off the market and Steve's to blame."

" _Finally_. It was getting hard to breathe with all the unresolved sexual tension between the two of you and I think Thor was – is still, possibly – writing some ballad about it."

"A ballad," Steve repeats slowly.

"Oh," Tony says. "That explains it."

"Explains what?" Steve asks.

"He asked me what I thought about your eyes. I might have said something about them being clear and azure. What? Don't look at me like that, I thought he was joking."

"I'm not looking at you like anything. Just admiring your—" the corners of Steve's eyes crinkle and he bites his lips like he's holding back laughter, "—poetic ability."

"Oh, yeah? I'd like to see you do better."

"Before this turns into some strange kind of flirting, I'd like to remind you that I _am_ still here," Bruce says.

"Sorry, Bruce," Steve says. "Listen, would it really hurt if you and Betty started talking again?"

"Her father hates me. He'd be happy to see me either captured or dead. What if he tries something? Uses her against me?"

"Then, we'll stop him," Tony says. "We're the Avengers, we won't stand by and let him hurt you or Betty or anyone else." 

"We look after our own," Steve adds. "Don't avoid her."

"That sounds like an order, Cap," Bruce says with a quiet chuckle. 

"It is. Make me proud."

"I'd actually be offended that you called Steve for advice about this since, you know, science bro code and all, but I get why," Tony says. "I'm the guy to call _after_ you've got the girl and you want tips on how to spruce up your sex life, Steve's the guy to call when you need help getting the girl and when you're having emotional breakdowns."

"Why am I the one who helps with getting the girl? I usually didn't talk to one for longer than five minutes before Peggy."

"It's the face. You've got the kind, compassionate tell-me-all-your-troubles-I'll-make-them-go-away face. Also, you're Captain America. Captain America does not give sex tips. That's like your parents giving you sex tips."

"Oh, Christ, no, I don't want to hear this, I'm just going to leave you two to it," Bruce says. "I'll tell you how it goes tomorrow."

"I want all the dirty details," Tony says. "Go get your girl, tiger."

"Take care, Bruce," Steve says. "Good luck."

"Thanks, guys. You should know that I'm happy for you both, but I think I'll pass on Tony's tips on sprucing up my sex life."

"That's the saddest thing I've heard all year," Tony states glumly. Bruce bids goodbye with the sound of his laughter.

"So, that conference you went to last week," Steve says, taking his phone back. "You saw Betty there, didn't you."

"I honestly didn't mean to tell her. It just slipped out."

"It's probably a good thing that you did. This may just be the push that Bruce needs."

Tony nods. "I feel like we've just given our son advice on how to talk to his crush. It's a very strange feeling."

"I reckon that's a sign you should get some sleep, don't you?" Steve says, standing up and taking Tony with him. With a hand in between Tony's shoulder blades, he herds Tony towards the bedroom. Inside, JARVIS switches the light on to the same level of dimness as the living room.

"You want me to sleep over?"

"Well," Steve says lightly, "it was your bed last time. I thought we'd try mine this time."

"This is a shameless ploy to get me into bed again."

"Shameless, that's me. Can't fool you, can I?"

"They don't call me a genius for no reason," Tony says.

Steve drops his phone back onto the bedside table and heads for the door joining his bedroom to the bathroom. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I won't be long."

Tony crawls beneath blankets that have the scent of soap and leather coming off of them like invisible incense and messily throws them around himself. He settles down on his side and waits, listening to the sound of running water coming through from the bathroom. It was a bone-deep tiredness and the memory of Obie that had chased him into Steve's arms last time; tonight, Tony is here out of his own volition and can't see himself staying away. 

"You really did make yourself comfortable," Steve says when he comes back, sounding amused.

"Told me to," Tony says. The blankets shift as Steve climbs in behind him. "You know, no one would believe me if I said I slept with you twice without there being any sex involved. I think that's considered a statistical impossibility in the outside world."

"I thought we already established that the outside world doesn't know you very well," Steve says. "Lights out, JARVIS."

Tony looks down at himself, at the hint of the blue light from the arc reactor spilling out from underneath the blankets. "I know I move around in my sleep. At some point, the arc reactor's going to get exposed. Would you still be able to sleep?"

Steve comes closer, his chest finding a home against Tony's spine, and throws his arm over Tony's waist. "It's fine, it didn't bother me last time. I learnt how to sleep in any situation in the army, anyway."

"Good. That's, no, that's swell."

"Making fun of the way I talk, are you?"

"You _did_ laugh at my poetic ability. This would be an appropriate time for you to apologise, so that I can sleep without worrying about the damage done to my self-esteem."

"I apologise for my insensitivity. Now, go to sleep, Tony."

Tony's eyes fall shut. Steve's breath is warm and constant against the back of his neck and Tony thinks he feels a kiss placed there, too. "You know," he mumbles, "I hope Bruce talks to Betty. I wouldn't want anyone to think we've raised an awkward teenager."

" _Sleep_ ," Steve says and Tony does.


	21. Chapter 21

Tuesday, and it's officially a year since the Avengers first came together. They're all preoccupied and scattered during the day, but Tony drags himself back to the Tower in the evening and finds shawarma sitting on the table.

"I thought it only right and Steven agreed," Thor says cheerfully when he sees Tony laughing.

"It can be a thing," Tony says. "An anniversary thing. What better way to celebrate than shawarma, eh?"

"In a moment such as this, I regret not having brought mead with me."

"There's always next time, buddy."

"Aye, there is certainly always next time," Thor says with a warm smile. "I believe news of the altercation Steven was involved in today did not fail to reach your ears?"

"It probably didn't fail to reach _Asgard_ ," Tony says, grinning broadly. The video had appeared on Youtube two hours ago and had instantly gone viral – every screen that Tony had looked at was showing Captain America delivering a punch to a man he had caught harassing a young woman. "Oh, look, here's the white knight himself."

Steve, followed in by a sniggering Rhodey, just says, "you're talking about the video, aren't you?"

"What video? I haven't seen this video," Tony lies and Steve gives him a _look_. "Alright, fine, so I have, but let's watch it one more time for edification purposes."

"What edification purposes does a video of me punching a guy hold?"

"Uh, moral ones, like how-to-deal-with-assholes-according-to-Captain-America kind of ones." Tony collapses onto the sofa, only sitting up when Rhodey begins nudging him incessantly, and he ends up in between Rhodey and Steve, Thor on the sofa adjacent.

The television comes alive, the screen lit up with the video in question. The camera – someone's phone – shakes for the first five seconds and then becomes steady, giving a clear view of Steve standing in front of a woman trying her best not to hunch into herself, one hand holding tightly onto the wrist of a snarling man.

"She said no to you, pal," Steve says on the screen, his expression grim and determined. He pushes the other man – Tattoo, Tony decides to call him after spotting the black ink creeping down his arm – away, using just enough strength to send Tattoo stumbling back a few steps. "Leave her alone."

"I don't need your help," the woman cries out from behind, even as her voice wavers.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't just stand by and let him hurt you," Steve replies without taking his eyes off of Tattoo, who only grows angrier.

"Hah," Tony says. "Why am I even surprised that you have a perfect _stand back Citizen_ voice?"

Rhodey leans in and mutters, "you need to work on your own one, just sayin'."

Tattoo interrupts Tony's reply with, " _Captain America_. You must think you're so much better than everyone else, America's golden boy. It ain't your time anymore, _pal_ , who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can't do?"

"I don't think I'm better than everyone else, but up against a guy like you? I'd like to think I'm better than that, sure." Steve leans in and it takes attentive listening to make out his next words; Tony has seen the video enough times that he can recite it verbatim. "Listen, here's what you're gonna do: you're gonna walk away right now without looking back or trying anything again, do you understand?"

Tattoo growls out something incomprehensible, his fists clenching. Steve must've seen the warning there, because he says, "ma'am, would you please hold this for me?" and hands over his art portfolio. Just as Tattoo throws his fist at him, Steve grabs a hold of it and twists it, delivering a smooth punch to the nose with the other hand.

"Had it been me, I would have struck him sooner," Thor tells Steve.

"I actually didn't need to punch him," Steve replies, "but it felt damn good."

The Steve in the video says, "I could do this all day," and Tattoo clutches at his broken nose, stares dumbly for a few seconds before he finally slinks away. Steve turns around, a distinct shift taking place in his body language as he comforts the woman, and then the video cuts off.

"You manly man, you," Tony says, patting Steve's biceps and letting his fingers linger there. "What would we subs do without big, strong Doms like you?"

"Oh, I don't know, build a metal suit in a cave from scraps and fight your way out to freedom?"

"Hmm, you're right, we _are_ pretty kickass." Tony tilts his body around, leaning back against Rhodey's shoulder and throwing his legs over Steve's lap. "While you were busy defending the innocent, I've been slaving away in R &D all day long. I think you should take care of me."

"You're lucky you're cute," Steve says, curling his hand around just above Tony's knee.

"You really think I'm cute?" Tony asks, faux-innocent. Behind him, Rhodey snorts and Tony swiftly shoves his elbow into Rhodey's side. "I hope Rhodey hasn't been taking my absence as an opportunity to tell you horrible things about me."

"An oath was made to not divulge anything we spoke about," Steve says solemnly. "I keep my oaths, Tony."

Tony smiles coyly and leans forward, his head tilting to the side just enough to expose his neck. He holds Steve's gaze and then drops it for a moment, looking back up from under his eyelashes, every inch the docile creature. His voice is slightly breathy as he asks, "and there isn't anything I can do _at all_ to make you spill?"

Tony has often played this game, put on affected shows of demureness like they were masks to wear and take off, but this time at least, it is not entirely an act on Tony's part. Steve's eyes fall to Tony's mouth, his grip on Tony's leg tightening, and Tony delights in the fact that the Bond lets him feel desire, hot and heavy, rise up in Steve like slow licks of flames.

"You're welcome to try," Steve says. "In fact, I think I might insist on it."

Rhodey coughs. "How 'bout we keep it PG-13 out of the bedroom, guys? Not in front of the food at least."

Thor simply laughs and presses a plate into Rhodey's hand. "You will soon become accustomed to it as we all have."

"You know you love it, buttercup," Tony says, falling back against Rhodey. He knows later on, when Steve has him alone, Tony will be pressed against Steve's bed, helpless and giddy as Steve makes him pay for his teasing. "Bruce called, by the way. He says hi and happy anniversary, may we live to avenge another year. Where are the Twin Terrors?"

"Natasha has informed us that she and Clint shall arrive late," Thor says, a furrow in his brow. "She sounded troubled when she spoke, I sensed that all was not well with her."

"Maybe someone escaped her Thighs of Death and lived to tell the tale?" Tony suggests.

"I bet you'd love to be that guy," Rhodey says.

"Are you telling me you wouldn't?"

Rhodey doesn't even have to consider it. "Point."

"Maybe their mission isn't going according to plan," Steve says, speculative. Tony knows Steve tries not to contemplate what kinds of mission Natasha and Clint are sent on; he's seen him checking what state they're in after missions often enough, his face sombre whenever either of them is injured. "I'm going to just get told it's classified if I ask Fury about it again."

"Yeah, pretty much. Sometimes, I think SHIELD's vocabulary only extends to that one word. The rest is just Fury glaring your soul into submission with his one eye." Steve looks like he's beginning to chase a dour line of thought, so Tony makes a profound noise of annoyance and says, "surrounded by three Doms and – well, two and a half, since Thor's more of a switch – and not a single one is rushing to pamper me. Something's wrong with this picture."

Thor chuckles and says, "you leave a truly arduous life, my friend. It moves my heart."

"What is this, the sassy warrior brothers show? Is bullying innocent people what you three do now when you're in the same room?"

"No," Rhodey says. "That rule only applies to you."

Tony glowers at him. "Didn't you mention a trip to D.C.? Why aren't you over there?"

"Trying to get rid of me so soon after begging me to drop by for months?"

"I wouldn't use the word "begging", vehemently requesting is a more fitting phrase," Tony says, carefully filling a wrap with shawarma and tabbouleh. "For instance, I vehemently request that you let me at the hummus, Rhodey, don't be selfish."

"You don't even like hummus," Rhodey says. "How can I be selfish with something you don't even like?"

Tony ignores him, adding the hummus to the wrap and then handing it over to Steve.

"Thank you," Steve says with a pleased, little smile that Tony won't tire of receiving.

"What?" he asks when he catches Rhodey looking at him.

"Oh, nothing," Rhodey says, ruffling Tony's hair and taking a bite out of his own wrap. "Hummus. _Lovely_."

"You know, that's a great shirt you're wearing, Tony," Steve says. "Very nineteen forties. I must've misunderstood all your insults about my fashion sense."

Tony looks down at his plaid shirt. "I'll have you know that there's a distinct difference between my _designer_ plaid shirt and your plaid abominations. Rhodey, back me up here."

"Like hell," Rhodey says. "I haven't survived this long without knowing when not to intervene in marital disputes."

"Wise words indeed," Thor says, sounding pained. Tony decides he'll ask about the story behind that later.

By the time Clint makes his entrance, they've finished eating, but Steve points to the plates set aside. It's become a habit for Clint and Natasha to return from their missions with small items of some sort (he'll deny it if ever asked, but Tony has a steady collection of tokens growing in his bedroom) and Tony looks expectantly at Clint's hands, only to find them empty. Clint nods at them all and silently sits down on the floor in front of Tony.

Tony sniffs the air. "Is that something fruity I smell, Clint? Do you secretly use Natasha's shampoos?"

"It's because I'm worth it," Clint replies, but his voice falls flat halfway through.

Steve frowns, eyeing the rigidness of Clint's shoulders. "Mission go okay?"

"Fine," Clint says. "It's over, anyway."

"You should eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

Tony glances towards the door, waiting for Natasha to come through, but there is no sign of her. "I need a tablet," he announces, standing up. "I'm going to find a tablet, so that I can pretend I have an actual reason to ignore you all."

"You ignore us with or without a good reason," Rhodey says.

"Don't cry too much over it," Tony says, patting Rhodey's head consolingly.

He finds Natasha in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with her head tipped towards the ground. There's an empty glass and an unopened bottle of wine next to it. The same tension plaguing Clint tonight haunts her, too, her knuckles white where she is gripping the countertop with her hands too tightly.

Tony knows she knows he's there; he didn't exactly mask the sound of his footsteps and Natasha is almost always alert even when she doesn't need to be. "You're going to lose," he says.

Natasha looks at him slowly. "What?"

"The staring match you're having with the floor. You're going to lose. Inanimate objects have this thing with not looking away, you'll never beat them."

Natasha stares at him and then laughs softly, turning her head away as if embarrassed at laughing at something so ridiculous. "Do you have a lot of experience staring down inanimate objects?"

"Comes with being drunk so often," Tony says, shrugging. "The amount of times the ceiling's beat me, yeah, let's not go over that." He pulls out a glass for himself, opens the bottle of wine, and pours into both glasses. He's prepared to listen if Natasha wants to tell him anything, but she might not and that's fine, too.

Natasha takes her glass and sips daintily. "We had an argument," she says. "I thought he had made the wrong call, jeopardised the mission and put himself in danger, and I – would've punished him for it. But it turned out that he didn't make the wrong call or put himself in danger. I was the one in the wrong."

"At least you know that you're in the wrong," Tony says. "You'd be surprised how many Doms I've met that can't accept or aren't willing to admit it when they're the one who's made the mistake."

"I've made too many to ignore," Natasha admits quietly, her mouth hidden behind her glass. "We usually punish ourselves the most."

Tony wonders if Steve has ever felt the same way.

"He has," Natasha says. She swallows, appearing surprised at herself for her words. "I didn't mean for that to come out. You should ask him about it, if you want to know more."

"I think I can guess, actually. Neither of us is happy over what we were like this time last year."

"Last year," Natasha repeats. "We've survived a whole year together."

"Funnily enough, yeah. I've got a super soldier, a Hulk, a Norse god, and two master assassins all under one roof and somehow, this place is still intact. If that doesn't deserve a drink, I don't know what does." Tony clinks his glass against Natasha's and finishes off his drink. "Did you apologise to Clint?"

"Not yet. We needed to calm down first and sometimes, he prefers to be alone."

"Well, if you ask me," Tony says, taking her glass away and setting it down on the counter, "which you didn't, I just thought I'd dispense wisdom for free tonight of all nights, but anyway, if you ask me, I think he's waiting. For you. If he wanted to be alone, he wouldn't have come down to join the rest of us." Natasha doesn't reply, so he continues, "come on. That much testosterone in a single room, who knows what we'll end up doing without the calming influence of a woman? Cap broke someone's nose today, too. It's always the quiet ones."

"You're right. Calming influence, that's exactly what I am," Natasha says wryly. "Give me a few minutes and I'll be there."

"I'll hold you to that," Tony says, walking backwards out of the kitchen. Nobody in the living room points out that he's returned empty-handed and he reclaims his spot in between Steve and Rhodey, sprawling his arms and legs over both of them.

Clint finally looks away from the television when Natasha appears and sits down next to him. They don't speak – not with their mouths, at least – but gradually, they lean in, just their shoulders nudging together. It's the way it'll always be with them, Tony thinks. Some things always return to the same place. 

"Young love," he can't help but say and gets a takeout box thrown at his face.

+

"Earth Mover? Really? That's what you want to call it, boss?"

"You're one of my minions, Hamilton, and minions don't get to judge. It's a machine that'll dig into the earth, what else do you want to call it?"

"Something snazzier."

"You come up with something, let me know. Until then, it's an Earth Mover."

Hamilton makes a noise of concession and puts an end to the blindly grabbing motions of Tony's right hand by handing over a cup of freshly brewed coffee. The idea to build laser-powered earth movers designed to help with disaster relief had come to him after news of an earthquake recently hitting northeast China and Tony has been working on the laser system for the past few days.

The coffee is not nearly good as the coffee from his own kitchen (should look into that, Tony thinks absently) and it burns his tongue, but he soothes the sting with doughnuts. "You know who's going to be pissed that I thought of this before him? Parks."

Someone laughs – O'Brien most likely, if the deepness of the laugh is any indication – and Hamilton's voice comes from somewhere behind again, "I'm sure he's going to keel over from the jealousy. Your phone's ringing, sir."

"Keeling over is good," Tony mumbles. He rubs at his chest, trying to alleviate the uncomfortable feeling gathering there. "I approve of keeling over."

"Your phone's still ringing."

"Whoever it is can wait for five minutes. I'm so close to finishing this."

"I can take over for you," Hamilton suggests.

Tony reconsiders the wavelength tuning and makes another adjustment to it before saying, "you know that thing I just said about how minions don't get to judge? Well, what minions _do_ get to do is go home and try to contemplate how amazing their boss is and how he can finish his work by himself."

"Is this you kicking me out?"

"This is me kicking all of you out. Go and bother your girlfriend or something. You do have a girlfriend, don't you? That wasn't a conversation I imagined?"

"No, that wasn't a conversation you imagined," Hamilton sighs. "Alright, I'll take my leave then. Your phone is ringing again, by the way."

Tony waves her away, mouth affixed to his cup of coffee again, and makes the final checks to the design. It isn't long until he's saving and closing the design, shooting off an e-mail to Pepper informing her that the production of the prototype will begin soon. He stretches his sluggish limbs and finally picks up his abandoned phone, the discomfort in his chest only growing after he sees the four missed calls Steve has left on his phone.

"Oh, shit," Tony mutters, pushing off his chair and hurrying out of the door. That morning, he had assured Steve that he would be punctual for the briefing at SHIELD's New York headquarters, but he's ten minutes late already and it'll take – Tony looks at his watch – another ten for him to get over there if he drives fast enough.

He registers little of the drive to SHIELD's headquarters other than how hard he stamps down on the accelerator. Outwardly casual, Tony strolls inside, flashing his ID at the entrance and ducking his head down for a retinal scan before taking the elevator to the briefing room Steve had mentioned. When he pushes the door open, he cuts Natasha off mid-sentence and glances quickly over the screen behind her depicting two unfamiliar faces.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Stark," Fury says.

"There was a thing," Tony explains, his eyes going straight to Steve, who doesn't look surprised by the sudden entrance but Tony can feel the tiny pinpricks of Steve's disappointment. He wants to apologise, but instead says, "an Earth Mover thing and hey, twenty minutes late isn't so bad, it could've been an hour?"

"Sit down, Tony," Steve says, waiting until Tony has dropped himself down onto the nearest chair to turn back to Natasha and gesture for her to continue.

"For Tony's benefit, I'll just recap, shall I? Yesterday, one of SHIELD's storage facilities was broken into. It was the same facility that held the androids we found in Florida. Half of the androids were taken before our agents intercepted, but the infiltrators managed to escape."

"You guys losing your touch?" Tony asks, catching himself looking towards Steve again and forcing his gaze away. Lacking a tablet or a phone to toy with, his fingers drum an arrhythmic beat softly against the table.

"Not exactly," Clint says. "It's difficult to break into any of our facilities, but not impossible, especially if you had some help from the inside."

"The spy," Tony says.

"Possibly _spies_. The agents in charge of security for that particular facility are," Clint gestures to the two faces on the screen, "Agents Clete Billups and Paul Allen. Both received flesh wounds in the encounter, but we saw the footage – they weren't fighting nearly as hard enough even before they got hit."

"If Steve's spy theory is correct," Natasha says, "then these two might be our guys. All other agents related to our investigations into AIM check out."

"I assume you already have them under surveillance?" Steve asks and Natasha nods.

"If you were to approach these men, seeking answers, would they not balk?" Thor asks.

"Yeah, we're aware," Clint says. "We've already grilled them on why they failed to stop the attack, but any more than that might tip them off that we've got eyes on them for other reasons. I don't think they'll make a move anytime soon, anyway."

"It is really obvious what we need to do to draw them out, you all know that, right?" Tony says. "I mean, if we're going with Steve's theory and I'm the one in mortal peril, I say we dangle something juicy in front of them."

"No," Steve says. "We're not using you as bait."

Tony isn't surprised at the objection and lets it show on his face. "Why not?" he asks, failing to keep the brusqueness out of his tone. Steve raises an eyebrow at him. "It'll end this thing sooner. Or are you just saying no because you're annoyed at me for being late, Cap?"

Steve narrows his eyes. "Excuse me? What, exactly, are you asking here?"

"I guess I'm asking if it's the leader of this team that's objecting or," Tony looks up at the ceiling, where hidden cameras watch from their perch, and doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't need to, anyway. Through the Bond, he feels Steve's irritation suddenly flare brighter. 

"I'm speaking _solely_ as your leader right now," Steve says, not loud at all, but with a strange force behind his words that makes Tony drop his eyes, feeling chastised. "We need to know where AIM's headquarter is. If we wait and watch them, Billups and Allen could lead us to it. If it doesn't look like they will, we'll consider your idea and also anything else we come up with. Does everyone agree?"

No one speaks until Thor finally says, "the metal creatures our enemies have retrieved will no doubt assist in their preparations against us. Waiting will allow them time, but it is perhaps the better course if it will allow us to strike at their heart."

Clint says, "if we're gonna wait, we shouldn't wait for too long. I'm all for ending this thing sooner."

"Two weeks at most," Tony suggests, to which Steve nods.

"Our agents will continue keeping watch, then," Natasha says. "We're chasing up other leads, too, not just in the US, but in Asia and Europe."

Fury, who, to Tony's surprise, has been quietly watching all this time, simply says, "sounds like a plan." His eye shifts from Natasha to Steve and then to Tony. "Do I need to be concerned about whether you two can act like professionals and keep your personal squabbles out of briefings?"

"Of course not, Director," Steve says tightly. 

"Of course not," Tony repeats.

Fury watches them for a moment longer before saying, "don't be late, Captain," and leaving. The rest of the team slowly follow, until only Tony, Steve, and a tense silence remain.

Tony doesn't move, the anxiety in him built up like a held breath. He stares at the hand Steve rests on the table, at the wall beyond Steve's shoulder, at anything but the blue eyes watching him. 

"Do you remember what we discussed?" Steve asks.

"I do," Tony says.

"Then, you know what to do." Steve stands and walks towards the door. "I'll be back within the hour."

Tony presses his chest where he can feel the dog tags beneath his shirt and exhales until he feels ready to leave the room. He weaves his way through the agents milling around in the corridor outside, but with Steve's discontent flowing through the Bond and invading his mind, Tony becomes entangled in it and walks into the agents in front of him.

"Billups," Tony blurts out without thinking when the two agents turn around.

Billups stares at him, his eyebrows drawn close together. He looks stern, as if the lines of his face have stayed strict for so long, they no longer know how to relax. "Mr. Stark," he says, polite and soft. He nods in dismissal at the agent at his side and searches Tony's face with pale grey eyes. "Are you alright? You seem a little—"

"I'm fine," Tony says dully. "I'll be even better once I get out of here."

He resumes walking and Billups matches his strides. "I'm on my way out, too," Billups says. "I've pushed enough paper around for today. I'm assuming you only know my name because of yesterday's incident?"

"You're assuming right," Tony says. "Is paper pushing your punishment for messing up? Yours and Allens'? How long for?"

"A week," Billups answers as they enter the elevator. "We haven't been told what we're doing after, but I don't think we're returning to the same post."

Tony pauses. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers and considers his next words carefully. "I'm sure you'll have found a purpose in life again by the time I've come back," he says. "There's no shortage of keyholes to peep through, after all. Espionage never rests and all that."

"Sounds like the title of a badly-written thriller. Peeping through keyholes, is that your idea of espionage?"

"Don't tell Fury. It'll hurt his feelings. Something tells me a delicate soul lurks behind that tough facade."

Billups' mouth twitches. "Where are you going?"

"What?"

"You mentioned that you'll be coming back. I took it to mean you're going out of the country."

"Oh, right, yeah, off to Japan soon," Tony says. "Business and not pleasure, unfortunately. At least there'll be sake. You can't go wrong with some of that, right? Sake and sushi, killer combo."

"I see," Billups says in a curious tone of voice.

I don't think you do, actually, Tony thinks, smiling wanly. The elevator opens to the ground floor and they both step out, heading in opposite directions. "Well, this has been nice, always good to talk to the little people once in a while," Tony says.

"I'll see you around, Mr. Stark," Billups says.

"I'm Tony Stark, of course you will," Tony says breezily, though he feels anything but. He walks towards his car with the feel of Billups' eyes on him, but when Tony looks back, Billups has vanished out of sight.

Tony doesn't linger, compelled to return to the Tower. On the drive back, he plays his music at the loudest volume, hoping that it'll provide a distraction, but even the lyrics he has sung for years get jumbled up in his mouth and he angrily switches the music off. The doorman at the entrance of the Tower gives Tony an odd look, but thankfully asks nothing.

"JARVIS, who's returned to the Tower?"

"All of the Avengers excluding Captain Rogers. Colonel Rhodes is also absent."

Entering Steve's suite without Steve by his side has an awkwardness to it now. Tony leaves his shoes by the door and walks into the living room as agreed. In front of the couch, he kneels, hands at his back, and waits.

"Your heartbeat is accelerating, sir," JARVIS says.

"I'm going to get punished," Tony mutters unhappily. It'll be a light punishment, but a punishment regardless, and the mere thought of it makes him jittery.

JARVIS takes a pause as if he needs time to process that information. "This has been discussed between yourself and Captain Rogers. He will adhere to what you have agreed upon and not disregard your safety."

Tony tries not to think about Obie, but it's almost futile. Obie had preferred physical punishments for the pain they left behind, but it was more the punishments that never left a mark on his skin that Tony despised the most. Silence was the greatest chastiser of them all – when he was sent away, denied attention, Tony only found himself desperately wanting to make amends, the part of him that sought to obey aching like a deep wound.

When JARVIS informs him of Steve's arrival, Tony straightens his back and listens carefully to the sound of Steve's approach. Considering his size, Steve can move nearly silently. Tony figures it's either a trait left behind from the days Steve was much smaller and lighter on his feet or one acquired in the army, during still days spent in enemy lines where the softest noise could be a prelude to death.

There's a light noise as Steve drops something on the couch and then sits down in front of Tony, only a foot away. Tony jerks a little and has to keep himself from crawling that short distance, fitting his body in between Steve's legs, and placing his head on Steve's knee just as he has done so countless times already.

"Look at me," Steve orders quietly. Tony lifts his head. "How long have you been kneeling for?"

"I – don't know. JARVIS?"

"Twenty five minutes, sir."

"Alright. You can rest your knees while you tell me what you did wrong," Steve says.

Tony sits back on his heels, but he can't appreciate the small reprieve it gives his knees when Steve is evidently dissatisfied with him. "I told you that I'd be there on time for the briefing, but I wasn't. I didn't answer my phone when you called and ignored it to continue working and I assumed that you shut me down on purpose because you were already unhappy with me."

"Your work, could you have delegated it to someone else?"

In Tony's head, Hamilton says again, _I can take over for you_. "I could have."

"And you didn't," Steve says flatly. The pause he takes lets the words sink deeper into Tony's mind and Tony feels his guilt thicken. "What I'm most disappointed about is that you thought I wouldn't listen to your idea because of a personal disagreement, that I'd let something like you being late affect my judgement in these briefings. Fury is starting to question our professionalism because of this. I can't have that, Tony. _We_ can't have that."

"I'm sorry," Tony says.

"I know you are," Steve says. He glances to the right. "I want you to go that corner, face the wall but keep your eyes on the floor, and kneel. You were late for twenty minutes, so you'll kneel for twenty minutes. You won't talk or move. I think that's fair, don't you?"

"It's fair," Tony agrees.

"Go," Steve orders, and Tony crawls over and kneels where he has been instructed to.

Almost at once, the silence, thick and tense, seems to weigh down on him. He tries to run from it and into his thoughts, but all he can think about is Steve sitting only a few feet away, untouchable in this instance and indifferent to Tony's presence. Steve is unreserved when it comes to offering Tony praise, making no secret of how much attention he bestows upon Tony, and now that it has been momentarily taken away, Tony feels bereft.

He bites his lip hard to keep Steve's name and a stream of apologies from spilling out and listens to Steve moving around, the sound of paper cutting quietly through the air. A book, he realises. Steve is reading a book. For a quick moment, Tony feels a sudden and vicious impulse to rip the book out of Steve's hands and demand not to be ignored like this, but then moment is gone and Tony feels all the more terrible for it.

Five minutes must have already gone by, he thinks with some desperation, but it's most likely been two minutes at most. Kneeling so perfectly still, the urge to move is greater than ever. His hands itch to clench and unclench but Steve has disallowed it and Tony has to be good, has to show that he knows he did wrong and knows what not to do again.

When JARVIS softly announces, "twenty minutes have passed," the turning of pages comes to an immediate stop.

Tony wants to relax and fall out of position but he restrains that urge and waits for Steve to tell him that he can. He hears Steve move again, listens to footsteps inching closer and knees hitting the floor, and then Steve's arms circle his body.

"Relax, Tony," Steve says, and Tony finds that he finally can.

He drops back, boneless, against Steve and lets himself be turned around and held close. "'m sorry," he mumbles, face buried into Steve's chest, unable to stop himself from latching on now that Steve's within reach again. "I really am."

"You're forgiven," Steve says, pressing his lips to Tony's temple. "Of course you're forgiven." He is steady in Tony's too tight grasp, steady and wonderfully warm and Tony wants to stay afloat on his strength. "I know you hated that and that it was hard for you, but you did so well, Tony, so well. I'm proud of you."

Tony closes his eyes, the comforting warmth of the words washing over him. His guilt begins to disburse, vanishing piece by piece with every reassuring stroke of Steve's hand up and down his back, every bit of praise that Steve whispers into his ear. "You've been so good to me," Tony says. "I didn't mean to fuck up and ruin that."

"You didn't ruin anything," Steve says, tipping Tony's head back to look him in the eyes. With his thumb, he touches Tony's lower lip, tracing the marks Tony's teeth have left behind. "You made a mistake and you took the punishment for it perfectly. It's done with now."

"I think I got complacent and started thinking that you wouldn't actually punish me."

"I don't want to punish you at all. I'd rather reward and encourage you when you're good instead of punishing you when you're not, but if I have to, I will." Steve glances down at Tony's knees and says, "we should move to the couch."

"Can't we just stay like this?" Tony asks, far weaker than he had intended to sound. It's physically impossible to be closer to Steve than he already is, but he tries to burrow deeper anyway.

"You'll hurt your knees if we stay like this."

"I know, but," Tony says, quickly faltering when he begins to feel mortified by the strength of his reluctance to let Steve go. 

"But what?"

"I don't understand. Why I'm clingy like this, I don't understand. This isn't – I've taken more difficult punishments than this, I _have_ —"

"Shhh, it's okay," Steve soothes, dropping a string of affectionate kisses that work their way down from Tony's temple to the corner of his mouth. "You can be like this. In front of me, you can. It's been a while since your last punishment, hasn't it? It's fine for you to react strongly. I'll take care of you."

Tony breathes in, collecting himself, and says, "I know."

Steve's answering smile is incandescent. He takes Tony's lips in a chaste kiss, pulling them both up onto their feet and walking backwards towards the couch. Tony cringes at the ache in his knees, though it is nothing he can't ignore. He drapes himself over Steve the moment Steve is stretched out on the couch, resting his head on Steve's chest. The silence is no longer unbearable with Steve's heartbeat echoing in his ear.

Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair and Tony counts each stroke. He reaches forty seven by the time he thinks to ask, "you and Fury before, what was that about?"

Tony feels the rise and fall of Steve's chest as Steve sighs. "SHIELD's not to be trusted completely, we all know that, but they're necessary. Natasha and Clint, they're, they've become my own, become _ours_. I have to protect them where I can, so I asked for greater say over the missions they go on. I'm not going to get complete control, even if they are Avengers, I know, but maybe I can convince Fury. I should have done that sooner, really. I've offered to go on recon missions with them, too, if they need an extra hand."

"Just you?"

"Outside of the Avengers, you're already busy with everything in Stark Industries and your own personal projects," Steve says. "And you're not exactly built for stealth, Tony." Tony opens his mouth. "Don't say it, I know you're going to say something about my spangly suit, don't say it. It's better than yours."

Tony closes his mouth and opens it again. "Pepper's busy with Stark Industries, I'm just the pretty face. What if you need aerial support for some reason? What if you get injured?"

"They're just recon missions, nothing too dangerous. SHIELD will be providing aerial support if we happen to need it and I've got super-healing, remember?"

"Fine," Tony mutters. "But just so you know, if you do end up in medical, I'll hunt you down and there – there will be _things_ done, Steve. Bad things. Things involving your shield and paint that you can't remove."

Steve smiles widely and Tony gets the feeling his threat hasn't quite worked. "Yeah? I warrant things being done? That puts me pretty high up on the important list, doesn't it?"

"Not if you're mocking the things that will be done," Tony says, turning his head away, but Steve clasps his chin firmly with his fingers and kisses Tony, licking in deep with his tongue as if Tony's mouth is still new and fresh to him, the taste undiscovered.

Tony's throat works several times before he can ask, "was that meant to mollify me?"

"Yes. Is it working?"

"You could try again. You could try again several times, in fact." In a softer (needier) tone, he adds, "please."

"I'm going to kiss you until our jaws hurt," Steve says matter-of-factly. He curls one hand around the back of Tony's neck, the other gliding down Tony's back until it stops just before the swell of his ass.

Tony licks his lips and repeats himself. "Please."

Steve kisses the corner of Tony's mouth, whispering, "you're so lovely," and slides their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References and other tidbits: The laser-powered Earth Mover is something that Tony comes up with in Iron Man: Armored Adventures, the "Parks" Tony mentions is a reference to Arthur Parks, aka the Living Laser, one of the villains from the comics, Agents Clete Billups (what's with that surname?) and Paul Allen are also from the comics. ALSO, dear readers, I'm excited for the next chapter, YOU WILL ENJOY IT, I'M SURE OF THAT, so cheer me on in updating with ch.22 sooner! :D


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, I have returned and with a super long chapter, too. Something over 15k, so that will hopefully make up for how long you've had to wait! (Also, I'm pretty sure people have forgotten by now, but just so that the name doesn't cause confusion, Selene Waldburg is one half of the famous 1930s Bonded pair that I first mentioned in chapter 11.)

Tony swipes a cloth across the fog clouding the mirror and peers at the face left behind, the steam from the shower still draped around him. He drops the cloth to the side, rubbing his hand over the goatee he has neglected for the past few days in favour of his projects down in the workshop.   

"How long do I have left, J?"

"Forty minutes."

"Perfect. Plenty of time to make myself decent for Samson."

"Indeed, sir. Captain Rogers has also just returned from SHIELD. He is making his way towards you now."

Barely a minute later, Tony hears the door to his bedroom open and a cold wind sneaks into the bathroom when Steve comes through, waving a hand through the slowly clearing steam.

"Hey," Steve says. "The mission's been decided on."

Tony looks at him in the mirror's reflection. "How long will you be gone for?"

"Five days. Leaving tomorrow morning and coming back Friday."

"And that's all I get to know, isn't it?"

"Classified," Steve says dryly.

"Fury doesn't waste any time, does he? You reckon he was just waiting for you to offer your help? Just staring at his phone, thinking 'any minute now...any...minute'?"

Steve pretends to muse on the question. "Strangely enough, I think he has better things to do."

"You're right. That _is_ strange." Tony bends down to open the cabinet below the sink and pulls out all he needs to start shaving, blindly setting each item on the counter.

Steve is holding up the badger brush when Tony straightens. "The old fashioned way, huh? Shocking."

"I will only say this the one time, so treasure it," Tony says, ignoring the smugness in Steve's grin. " _Some_ things are best done the old-fashioned way." Tony had expected to learn how to shave from Jarvis, but surprisingly, Howard had offered first, his hand warm on Tony's shoulder as he walked them both into the brightly lit bathroom. Tony still remembers the smell of his father's aftershave, the thick sandalwood in it.

"JARVIS, you have that recorded, right?" Steve says. "What Tony just said?"

"Yes, Captain. Should you wish to hear it once more, you need only to ask."

"Funny," Tony says, filling the basin with water and holding his hand out for the brush. "Really. You're both hilarious."

Steve keeps the brush to himself, the playfulness in his expression vanishing. "Let me do it for you."

Tony can't help quickly glancing at the razor, reassessing its sharpness. "Do you even shave? I’ve never seen you with anything remotely close to stubble on your face.”

“I shave," Steve says. He curls his hand around the back of Tony's neck, his thumb brushing against the earlobe and drawing Tony's attention away from the razor. "Trust me."

"Of course I do. I just don't want it to come out weird. It has to look even."

"I'll be careful."

Tony finally nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Steve smiles and takes his hand away, wetting the brush and swirling it in the small dish of shaving cream. "Sit on the counter for me," he says, following up with, "legs," and Tony spreads them so that Steve can stand in between. Steve tips Tony's head up slightly and holds it at an angle, studying his face before the brush begins whispering softly against Tony's skin, moving from cheekbones to chin and a little further down his neck. While he lets the lather sit on Tony's face, Steve swipes outlines into it with his little finger and exchanges the brush for the razor. Tony tenses involuntarily, thighs hugging Steve's hips. Steve runs the fingers of his free hand through Tony's damp hair reassuringly. "Don't worry, we'll be done in no time."

Tony makes his body loosen up, hold still, and nods again. He keeps his eyes fixed on Steve's face, all too aware of the razor dragging across his cheek in a slow, even stroke, Steve's fingers carefully keeping his skin tautened to help the razor along. Tony knows Steve's hands to be careful and precise, has seen it enough times in Steve's handling of his shield or when he is working in his art studio, and the same caution carries over into this, almost as if Steve is painting or sculpting right now.

As if the steam emptying out of the room has gone into his head and become trapped there, Tony's thoughts gradually turn hazy. Steve is leaning in close enough for him to count the individual lashes that frame his eyes and every breath Steve breathes out is a breath Tony breathes in. The intimacy of this moment makes his stomach tighten and his hands, gripping first the counter, move almost of their own accord to clutch at Steve's hipbones. Steve pauses only briefly, eyes flicking up to meet Tony's, and then continues. The quiet of the room is disturbed only by the sound of water swishing every time he rinses the razor.

"This must be what Bond felt like when Moneypenny was shaving him," Tony mumbles when Steve has finished shaving both sides of his face.   

Steve rinses the razor again in the murky water and sounds far too amused as he asks, "you're Bond?"

"What, you don't think I'm more than dashing enough to be Bond?"

"Well," Steve says, "I _do_ like Moneypenny. She doesn't fall for his charm."

"But you've completely fallen for mine."

"I said I _like_ Moneypenny, not that I _am_ Moneypenny.” Steve smirks. “And you're not Bond, you're not nearly tall enough."

"Harsh," Tony says.

"Sorry," Steve replies, entirely unapologetic. "I'm going to shave below your jaw, now."

Tony tilts his head back slowly, pulse fluttering in his throat as he exposes it. He hears Steve inhale as if the sight is somehow affecting Steve, too. Tony doesn't dare swallow and has to hold back a shiver when Steve leans in once more, his breath soft against Tony's bare skin, the light scrape of the razor resuming. Tony considers again the sharpness of the blade, the delicacy of the skin of his neck, and is comforted only by the unfaltering steadiness of Steve's hand. The slide of the razor begins to feel like a strange caress, tender to his vulnerable throat. He closes his eyes and drifts away in between each sweep of the razor, barely noticing Steve tipping his head back down and trimming the hair of his goatee with scissors. He comes out of his absentmindedness at the startling coldness of the towel Steve suddenly presses against his face.

"Perfect," Steve says quietly after he has wiped all the cream off, his eyes roaming all over Tony's face rather than just the freshly shaved skin. He touches Tony's cheeks lightly with the tips of his fingers and rubs aftershave into them afterwards. "Take a look."

Tony twists his head around to face the mirror and inspects Steve's handiwork. "Not bad. Not bad at all. I can rejoin civilisation with my signature look still intact." He turns back to Steve with a small smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Steve replies, kissing him on the mouth, then on the chin and down his throat, the touch of his lips a delicious sensation against Tony's sensitive skin. "You were right. You are more than dashing enough to be Bond, after all."

"How could you ever doubt it, Steven."

"Forgive me, Anthony," Steve murmurs in a drawl that's too low for Tony to not react. "I didn't – what? What is it?"

"Nothing," Tony says quickly, schooling his face into a casual expression.

Steve eyes him thoughtfully and places his hands on either side of Tony's waist. For all that it is Steve who is standing in between the cradle of his legs, it is Tony who feels caught. "Really, _Anthony_?" Tony's brain gets hung up on his name uttered in that playful tone and Steve smiles with something like triumph before continuing, "so, I was thinking about taking you out to dinner when I get back on Friday."

"Sure. Friday's good. Will you be buying me flowers?"

"How do you feel about roses? Tulips? Grass?"

"Banned. They're all banned. I refuse to go out with you if you bring me flowers."

"You're not gonna cut an old-fashioned guy some slack? That's just cruel."

"Consider it payback for the crack about my height." Tony brushes back the lock of hair hanging near Steve's eyes, his grin growing smaller until it is no longer there. "You didn't come here just to tell me about your mission, did you?"

"I didn't, no," Steve admits. "How're you feeling?"

"Determined," Tony says and he's not lying. "I'm not going to cancel this appointment, Steve. Not this time. I can do this."

JARVIS cuts in to say, "if you do not leave soon, sir, you will be late."

"I'll let you get on with getting ready, then," Steve says, but he doesn't step away immediately, rubbing a hand down Tony's arm. "If you need anything, I'll still be here when you get back."

"I might take you up on that," Tony says lightly. "If he asks about us, do I tell him?"

"Bruce says he can be trusted. If you think you can trust him too, then tell him. Tell him whatever you need to."

Tony leans in for another kiss before Steve leaves and he is left on his own again. He jumps off the counter and looks at himself in the mirror. "Okay," he says and pulls the plug in the basin, continuing with the rest of his routine.

It takes a few bursts of speeding, but Tony manages to arrive at the nondescript grey building on time. The face that pops out of the door proclaiming _Doctor Leonard Samson_ and beckons Tony inside is middle-aged and plain, framed by brown hair. Samson himself is a slight man wearing drab clothes, one hand hidden in the pocket of his trousers as he stands aside to let Tony in. The office is spacious but sparsely decorated, filled with only a desk, a sofa and chairs, and a bookcase that Tony feels some curiosity towards.

"Sit anywhere you'd like, Mr. Stark."

"Anywhere? Even at your desk?"

"If you'd like to, go ahead," Samson answers, sounding like he means it and is not merely playing along. He smiles and it transforms his face, makes it softer and more congenial.

Tony decides to be kind and let Samson keep his desk, opting for the comfortable looking sofa that faces the door. "I have high expectations, doc. Bruce told me you're really good at what you do."

"I'll try my best to meet those expectations," Samson utters with great seriousness, though his smile never really falls.

Tony looks at the closed book sitting on Samson's desk. "Is that the notebook in which you're going to write down how nuts you think I am?"

"I'd say that it's more of a notebook of observations. Would you prefer it if I didn't have it during our session?"

"You're giving me a lot of choices here, Doc. I almost feel spoilt."

"I only want to make you comfortable. This will go nowhere if you're not."

"No notebook," Tony says eventually and Samson obligingly places the notebook out of his sight.

"Are those the forms I asked you to fill out?" Samson asks, nodding at the papers in Tony's hand. "Did you have any problems or questions? Anything to go over?"

"No, it was all pretty straightforward," Tony says, setting the papers down. They're creased on one side where he held them too tightly and he tries to smooth them out. "So long as all of this remains confidential, I have no problems."

"I take confidentiality very seriously," Samson says firmly and now, his smile is gone, his gaze holding Tony's for a long moment. "I assure you, none of what you say here will get out of this room."

Tony relaxes somewhat. "Consider my soul at peace, then," he mutters and watches Samson glance through the forms briefly.

"Right, then," Samson says after pushing the papers to a side. "Now that that's done, how are you, Mr. Stark?"

"I would ask if you actually cared about the answer or if it's just a perfunctory question, but you actually do care, don't you?"

"I find that it helps to care, yes."

Tony smiles despite himself. "I'm as fine as a guy can be when he's finally dragged himself to a long overdue therapy session. How are _you_?"

"I'm fine, too," Samson replies. "Curious, however, about what brings you to me."

"Why do you think I'm here?" Tony asks. He admits to himself that he may be stalling. "I mean that as a genuine question, by the way, not just as an attempt to be difficult."

"Just," Samson repeats, faintly amused. "Well, if I knew the answer, I wouldn't be asking. All I know of you is what I've read from the papers and I'm sure we both know how...inaccurate the papers can be."

"Then, take a guess. Put what you know – or think you know – from the papers to good use."

Samson watches him closely as if trying to determine something and Tony ensures stubbornly that there is no flicker in his expression, no tell in his body language. "If I had to guess, I'd say either post traumatic stress disorder from your ordeal in Afghanistan, possibly the near-death experience right here in New York, or alcohol abuse."

"None of the above, but good guesses all the same." After a moment's deliberation, Tony adds, "I do get nightmares about those things, though."

"Have you spoken to anyone about it?"

"No one professional, no."

"But you're here now," Samson says, "and about something that is neither of what I guessed."

Tony leans back and self-consciously drops his hand when he notices that it's tapping against his arc reactor. For the first time, the words are easier to get out. Not by much, but still, easier. "I'm here because I was – in an abusive relationship and I haven't moved on from it, not properly, and I want to. I _need_ to."

Samson's expression remains neutral and devoid of pity. Tony wonders how much time Samson had to devote to training his face. "Alright, Mr. Stark—"

"Tony. Call me Tony. If I'm going to do this, then you might as well."

"In that case, you can call me Leonard in return or whatever else that suits you."

"I'll stick with Samson for now," Tony says. "But you shouldn't put power like that in my hands, you don't know what kind of names I can come up with."

"I think I'll take that risk," Samson says with a small smile that slowly fades. "So, I gather that, by the end of our sessions together, you want to be able to put that abusive relationship behind you fully."

"Well, naturally," Tony states tonelessly. "There are...people I want to be better for."

"But you want to be better for yourself, too, of course?"

" _Of course_ ," Tony can't help but snap. "I don't want anything left behind from Obie to control me anymore." He flounders for a moment, has to check the ingrained urge to backtrack and retract any mention of Obie.

"Do you experience flashbacks, Tony? Any triggers or nightmares?"

"Nightmares. I used to get panic attacks before, but that hasn't happened in a while. The nightmares are still around, though. I had a lot last year, not so many these days."

"Do you know why you had more nightmares last year?"

Tony doesn't need to mull over his answer, but he pretends to, anyway, taking that time to study Samson closely. Samson bears the scrutiny admirably. "I met someone," Tony says finally. "And there was...the potential for a relationship with him, I guess you could say, and I freaked out. _Continued_ freaking out for a while, actually. I thought I'd have to face what I did with Obie all over again, so I avoided him and when I couldn't avoid him, I tried to make it hard for him to stay around me. I wasn't thinking straight at the time, so I guess that probably explains the nightmares."

"On your form, you wrote down that you were involved in a romantic relationship. Is it with the same man?" Tony nods. "That's a great show of trust. You've come far already on your own."

"But it's not enough," Tony says. "I need this, I need to prove to myself that I'm okay and that Obie can't ruin what I have with Steve." He falters at Steve's name escaping his mouth.

"It's alright," Samson says calmly, leaning forwards. "This is all confidential, remember? You can say his name. You can say anything you want in this room."

"I've wanted to," Tony admits. "Talk, I mean. I didn't let myself and the moments when I did want to say something, the words never came out. Only Steve knows what happened and that was really an accident."

"Accident? Why an accident?" Samson asks. Tony elaborates and after listening quietly, Samson nods, clasping his hands together. "I think if we are to help you move on properly, we need to figure out what it is that's stopping you from doing so in the first place. How long were you in this relationship, Tony?"

"Thirteen years." If the answer surprises Samson, Tony doesn't receive any indication of it.

"Thirteen years is a long time."

"No one even noticed that anything was wrong. I'm pretty good, huh?" Tony grins without mirth. "It was fine for the few first years, but then it became worse. I didn't realise at first, that what he was doing was abuse. Funny, right? I'm one of the smartest guys in the world and I was still too stupid to notice it when I was in an unhealthy relationship."

"There are a number of people who don't always notice the signs of an abusive relationship, who stay even if they do, because they have hope that it'll improve or because they love the other person too much. Are they stupid, too?"

Tony goes to immediately refute that and then stops himself, laughing with some bitterness instead as he realises Samson's intention. "Sneaky, Doc. I underestimated you."

Samson smiles slightly, but it's gone in a flash. "At least it shows that you can tell how irrational it is to criticise yourself on something you wouldn't criticise in others who are or have been in your situation."

Tony runs a hand through his hair and asks, "so, is this all I'm expected to do? Just talk to you? Because I read some stuff and there was something about group therapy?"

"We do offer group therapy here, but you aren't expected to join in if you don't want to. We find that it's helpful because it allows our clients to see that they aren't alone in their experiences and shouldn't feel as though they are. There are other types of therapy that we can explore in future sessions, if you feel like doing that."

"I'm not feeling keen on the group therapy," Tony says. "It's easier talking one on one."

"We'll stick with that, then," Samson says, checking his watch. "The hour is nearly up, Tony."

"Yeah?" Tony stands up slowly, glancing at his own watch disbelievingly. "Huh. So it is. That wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be."

"Good. That's very good to know," Samson says as he walks with Tony to the door. "I'd like for you to think about if you're comfortable with talking to me, Tony, and then make a next appointment if you are. We're going to get more specific if you choose to carry on with this, so it's important that you feel like you can speak freely here."

"Okay, sure. I can do that." Tony nods goodbye at Samson and strides out of the office casually, as if they've just spent the hour talking pleasantries instead of his greatest secret.

He takes his time in returning to the Tower, carrying within himself an odd feeling, like he has just let go of something heavy but can still feel the shadow of it holding onto him. It leaves Tony searching out Steve the moment he steps out onto the communal floor, finding him sitting in the living room.  _The Fountainhead_ is held carefully in Steve's hands, the same hands that had cradled Tony's face this morning and that Tony has placed himself into the care and protection of. Tony neatly slides himself under Steve's arm and presses against his side; Steve merely tightens his arm and deposits an idle kiss onto Tony's forehead.

"Good book?" Tony asks.

"Not sure yet," Steve replies. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Tony understands that it is not the book Steve is referring to. "Not really, no."

"Okay," Steve says, and then, quietly, in between the turning of pages, he whispers into Tony's hair, "I'm so proud of you."

Tony turns his face into Steve's neck and just breathes until he feels calm again.

+

"So, what's with the new suit you're making? I saw pieces of it down in the workshop. JARVIS said something about space?"

Tony grunts in answer and with great care, adds another card to the sixth level of their house of cards. He slowly detaches his fingers from the card once it is in place and then snaps them in Rhodey's direction. "Doughnut. I deserve a doughnut."

Rhodey hands over the box of doughnuts and bends down with two cards delicately held in between his fingers. "Suit, Tony. What are you planning?"

"Dastardly deeds," Tony replies thickly through a mouthful of wonderfully sweet doughnut.

"Do I need to be ready for any explosions?"

"Not this time, no. And you'll be glad to know, no indecent exposure, either."

Rhodey looks at him sadly. "I was hoping for explosions and indecent exposure, actually. At least I can deal with those. Now, I'm gonna lose sleep trying to figure out whatever else it is you're thinking of doing."

"Your life is hard, platypus," Tony says, wiping off sugar from his lips with the back of his hand and picking up another card. "If you really must know, seeing as my, ah, last venture into space didn't go so well, I thought I'd do something about that."

"That's – good. Good idea. We don't need a repeat of last time." Rhodey gives him a strained smile and claps Tony's shoulder.

"You know what's another good idea? You joining the team. I can't believe you haven't been asked yet." Tony pauses and regards Rhodey closely. "You haven't, right?"

"Fury contacted me and suggested something along those lines. I declined."

" _Why_? We could be out superhero-ing together. It'll be like Indiana Jones and Short Round."

"Am I Short Round in that analogy?" Rhodey asks, raising an eyebrow and snatching the box of doughnuts away from Tony. "I'm just a soldier, Tony. I'd rather leave the superhero-ing to you."

"Okay, can we just establish that you're not _just_ anything. You're my—"

"Please don't finish that sentence the way I think you're going to end it."

"—best friend. I was going to say best friend. What did you think I was going to say?" Rhodey only hums dubiously. "But, really, you, well, you're," Tony pauses, playing with corners of the cards in his hand, and goes to place them in the house of cards, "some people don't need a suit to be heroes, is what I'm trying to say." Rhodey is grinning, soft and fond, when Tony turns back to him. "You're not gonna let me forget that one, are you?"

"Nope, not in a million years." Rhodey does offer him another doughnut, though, so Tony lets it go.

"Is this positive reinforcement? Every time I give you a compliment, I get food? I don't know whether to be offended by or proud of your devious Pavlovian ways, Rhodey."

"I vote for proud," Rhodey retorts. He bumps his shoulder against Tony's and gestures to the house of cards with his head. "Think we can manage nine stories again?"

"I think we can manage _twelve_. Come on, place the next card already." Tony waves his hand impatiently and Rhodey gets to it.

There is a brief, frightening moment just as the sixth story is completed where Rhodey almost knocks the structure over, but he freezes in time and slowly shuffles away. Behind him, Tony sighs in relief and takes twice as long to place the next cards. It isn’t until they’re halfway through the seventh story that Rhodey all of a sudden asks, “you miss Steve, don't you?"

"What?"

"You keep touching the," Rhodey gestures to his own neck. "And in true comfort eater fashion, you haven't stopped stuffing your face with doughnuts."

"I am _not_ a comfort eater," Tony argues, letting go of the dog tags.

"Of course not. It's just a coincidence that you happened to finish off twenty doughnuts by yourself when we watched The Lion King again."

"Mufasa deserved all twenty," Tony points out, needlessly in his opinion. "Why would I need comfort, anyway?"

"You're allowed to miss him, is all I'm saying," Rhodey says. "And you're allowed to show it. I won't tell the press you have a heart, I promise."

"Oh, well, in _that_ case." Tony rolls his eyes. He reaches for the second to last doughnut, but thinks better of it and picks up a playing card instead.

Rhodey huffs, grabs the doughnut and shoves it into Tony's mouth. "I bought them for you, anyway, you moron."

"You're too kind," Tony says through the doughnut. He chews slowly, ignoring Rhodey's glances, and pretends to study the house of cards. Steve has only been gone for three days, but his absence has left something of an empty space in Tony, as if a fundamental part of his being has been altered. Steve touches him all the time, innocent touches, an arm across Tony's shoulders or a hand at the small of his back, and somewhere along the line, Tony had grown used to it enough that, without it, he feels disjointed. "I thought," he begins, pausing to look at the sugar on his fingers, "that it would be easier for us to be apart if the Bond was stronger, but apparently it doesn't work that way. There's just this weird feeling, like there's something around me that's wrong, that's missing." Tony wonders about Bonded pairs where one of them has died, how much worse it must feel then, and thinks of Selene Waldburg, who lived on for thirty years after the death of her Bonded, never finding anyone else to erase the hollowness that had overcome her.

"—to me. Tony. Tony, are you listening?"

"What?"

"I said, you can talk to me, if you want."

"I know. I'm doing it right now. See? My mouth is making sounds and you’re responding in kind."

"You know what I mean, Tony. You can talk to me about stuff like this."

"I know,” Tony says again. “Wait, wait, wait, what's brought this on suddenly?"

"I just want you to remember that. You've been looking like Eeyore, man, and you were acting a bit strange the other day, so I thought," Rhodey shrugs, "you know what, it's nothing. It's nothing."

"I act 'a bit strange' on most days," Tony says but he knows what Rhodey is talking about. Tony hadn't been at his most conversational after returning from his appointment with Samson. "Hey, look, I know I can talk about feelings with you, alright? Of course I do." Tony peers into the box of doughnuts and pinches the last one with a thumb and forefinger. "Here, I'll even be magnanimous and allow you to have the last doughnut. What a sacrifice that is on my part, since I'm a _comfort eater_ apparently."

Rhodey takes the doughnut and with appropriate solemnity, states, “this sacrifice will not go unforgotten.”

"Good. Now, enough with the damn feelings," Tony grumbles, returning to the house of cards. "It's making me itchy."

At the beginning of the ninth story, Thor appears, sweeping into the room so majestically that Tony expects to see the wave of his red cape behind him. Majestic, however, is Thor’s natural setting, with or without his cape. "My friends, are you – you are constructing a tower of some sort? For what purpose?"

"Rhodey's trying to get in touch with his childhood again and I'm procrastinating. Wanna help out?"

Thor considers the house of cards curiously. "Perhaps not. I fear my hands may not be careful enough and I will send such a delicate structure tumbling."

“If it does fall, we’ll just blame Tony,” Rhodey says. “It’s what I always do, anyway.”

"That’s because you are a fiend who lacks honour," Tony says. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and grins because he already knows it's a text from Steve. "And on that note, I think I'm gonna bow out, get some shuteye."

Thor and Rhodey share the same look of surprise. "It is not your habit to seek rest at this time," Thor says, "but the hour has grown late. I will not keep you, Tony. Sleep well."

"I must've tired you out tonight," Rhodey says with a smirk.

"Careful, Rhodey, Thor might get the wrong idea," Tony replies as he trudges into the lift, hearing Rhodey mutter, "ah, he means nothing by it," just before the doors close. Tony pulls out his phone and, just as he has been for the last two days, presses for Steve's floor. The message on the screen says, _Staying out of trouble?_

 _Goes without saying,_ Tony types out. _I'm even heading to bed right now and it's only half eleven. Character development right there. How're things going on your end?_

Steve's response comes by the time Tony is in the bedroom. _Same as yesterday and the day before that. You would hate being here with so little activity._

Tony's clothes are in the middle of slowly migrating from his own room to Steve's. He searches out a tank top and flannel trousers and changes into them before replying. _Twin Terrors not swapping ghost stories over the campfire with you?_

 _I wish,_ Steve returns. _Maybe I'll talk them into it tomorrow night._

Tony moves the tablet he had left on the pillow onto the bedside drawer and crawls under the covers. _You do that_ , he writes back. _And since we're on the subject of things spooky, is it stupid that I feel like Mini-me is staring at me while I sleep? I still don't know why you insist on keeping a toy of me on your desk. Highly flattering, but also kinda creepy._

Steve's replies come one after the other in quick succession, first, _I thought you were in bed_ , and second, _You're in my bed._

Tony wishes he could've seen Steve's face when it dawned on him. He responds only with, _I am_.

_Have you been sleeping there ever since I left?_

_Yeah. I assumed I could sleep here, fairly sure I wasn't wrong in that assumption._

_You weren't,_ Steve texts back quickly. _Stay there._

Tony had little intention of moving anyway and says so. _How is it that your bed is more comfortable than mine? What's your mattress filled with, patriotism?_

 _Patriotism is right,_ Steve answers. _I like knowing you're in my bed, Tony._

Tony holds the phone up, grinning, and takes a photo of himself mussed and buried under Steve's blankets. _I had a feeling you might,_ he adds to the picture before sending.

The reply he receives is not from Steve, but from Clint. _What the hell are you sending Cap? He can’t stop staring at his phone. I can't tell if he wants to eat whatever he's looking at or stroke it._

_Ask yourself if you really want to know the answer to that question, Clint._

Clint simply texts back, _You're right._

Tony stares at his phone, waiting, and then sends another message when Steve still hasn't replied. _I haven't broken you, have I? I even had all my clothes on in that picture._

 _Good_ , Steve responds finally. _I would prefer to see you without them in person._ He sends another text in the time it takes Tony to work out his reply. _Go to sleep. I'll see you Friday morning._

_Got a meeting at nine on Friday, doing press stuff for Earth Movers the rest of the day. I’ll be back in the evening._

_Evening, then. Good night, Tony._

Tony scrolls back two messages, rereads it, and wonders how Steve expects him to go to sleep now.

+

The text Tony receives in the early evening of that Friday says: _Shower and change into something casual when you get back. Meet me in the private garage at seven._

Tony closes the message and waves away Pepper's questions about the sudden drop in his attention. He continues making the right noises of agreement and disagreement until Steve sends him another message ( _I left you something in your room that I know you've been secretly wanting)_ and Tony becomes too curious to remain focused on anything but the possibilities of what could be waiting for him in his room.

After eyeing Tony's phone speculatively, Pepper sighs and says, "you're going to be useless now, aren't you?"

"I have no idea why you'd say that. None at all."

Pepper smiles. "Go home, Tony. We'll just continue with this tomorrow."

"Hey, no, it's fine, come on, hit me with the numbers, I like numbers."

"But you like Steve even more," Pepper says, turning Tony around towards the door and giving him a small shove. "So, go home. Enjoy what's left of your Friday. I think I'll do the same myself, actually."

Tony doesn't need to be told twice (not on this occasion, that is) and smacks his mouth loudly against Pepper's cheek before he leaves. He makes it back to the Tower in record time and up to his room, where he sees what it is immediately – the flower sitting on his bed, accompanied by a note. _You said no flowers, so I got you only the one_ , it says, and Tony laughs, sudden, loud, and perhaps a little hysterically.

"JARVIS, what flower is this?"

"Captain Rogers mentioned a blue hyacinth."

"Look up its significance."

"It represents constancy, loyalty, and sincerity," JARVIS replies a moment later. "Fitting, I would say, sir."

"It would seem so," Tony says, twirling the flower around and placing it on the nightstand. "You wouldn't happen to know what Steve's planning, would you?"

"I know everything."

"But you're not going to tell me."

"I would not dare. That'd be a breach of confidentiality," JARVIS says solemnly. 

"You know that means little when you've hacked into systems on my orders, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Of course," Tony repeats dryly, picking out fresh clothes (a white shirt coupled with that grey waistcoat Steve likes to see on him, dark jeans that hug just right) and heading into the bathroom.

By the time he gets down to the private garage, Steve is already there, leaning against his motorbike with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on Tony from the moment the doors of the elevator open. Tony has always revelled in his good-looks and he revels in it even more now, finding something deeply tantalising in how the gaze that's dragging over him, lumbered with appreciation, belongs to Steve.

Tony watches Steve smile and, somehow, he must've forgotten how charming that curve of Steve's mouth is because it slows him down as he approaches, stuns him a little.

"You look great," Steve says. He hooks a finger into one of the loops of Tony's jeans, pulling him forward.

"So do you," Tony replies and leans up for a kiss that's all too brief for his liking.

Steve's smile turns mischievous. "Did you like the flower?"

"Oh, yes, very clever, getting me only one. It's always attractive when my date thinks outside the box."

"In that case, you've lucked out with me. I happen to be _very_ good with thinking outside the box."

"Even in the bedroom?"

Steve laughs, says, "we're going to be late," even though he lets Tony join their mouths together again, just for a moment. He tugs Tony closer to the motorbike, reaching for one of the two helmets Tony overlooked and plunking it over Tony's head before Tony can protest.

"Seriously?" Tony asks, muffled. "You want me to ride bitch? I'm kinda too old for that."

"Humour me. I even invested in helmets for this." Steve climbs on after securing his own helmet and Tony slides on behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist. "Hold on tight," Steve says. Tony can hear a smirk in his voice. "I've got a need for speed, remember? I'm a thrill chaser, once a menace to German tanks, now a menace to the streets of New York."

"You're not allowed to use my own words against me. I'm sure I introduced that rule somewhere in the first week of you moving in."

"Rules and me don't always get along."

"So I noticed," Tony manages to get out before the engine starts up and they're out of the garage, shooting into a warm evening with a twilight sky hanging above them like a darkening shroud. He tightens his grip around Steve instinctively, feels rather than hears Steve's laughter at that, but can't bring himself to be annoyed about it. From the buildings they rush past, Tony works out that they're heading towards Brooklyn and the motorbike eventually comes to a stop in front of a restaurant.

The man smoking a cigarette outside nods in greeting at Steve and after he takes his helmet off, Steve says, "keep an eye on her for me, Jerry."

Jerry blows out smoke and runs appreciative eyes over the motorbike. "I always do, Steve. I always do." He offers Tony a friendly grin and takes another drag of his cigarette.

The wait-staff inside are similarly familiar with Steve and without any words exchanged, they're both led to a private booth that sits in the shape of a semicircle,  the waitress – _Cleo_ , Tony notes written on her tag – taking down their drinks.

"This used to be a diner back when I was growing up," Steve says. "It's changed a lot since then, but the family that owns it is still the same, and – I don't know, there's still something familiar about it."

"It does look like a nice place. Very cosy."

"Am I hearing the Tony Stark stamp of approval?"

"Let's see what the food is like, first," Tony says primly, perusing the menu.

"Their meatloaf is good, but so are their steaks. You'd like the peppered one, I think. They make their own sauce for it."

Tony considers all the options, but ultimately opts for the peppered steak. Cleo drops off two bottles of chilled beer with a perky smile and he spots her winking at Steve before she leaves.

"Don't ask," Steve says when Tony raises an eyebrow at him.

"I wasn't going to," Tony says, taking a swig of his beer. "I was going to talk about how you've been gone for five days and you didn't even bring back any presents for me."

"There was a severe lack of tourist shops where we were. I hope you're not too sad about it."

"You can make it up to me by not going on another mission anytime soon."

Steve smiles. "So you missed me, then."

"Heckling at reality shows wasn't the same without you around," Tony says, knowing Steve will hear the admission couched in his sarcasm. "JARVIS had to talk me out of hacking SHIELD a few hundred times."

"Poor JARVIS," Steve says. "I thought you'd be interested to know that SHIELD's given me another uniform for these missions."

"I need to see it," Tony says instantly. "You know, just to check if it's spangly enough for you."

"If you want, you can check how strong the armour is at the same time," Steve says knowingly.  

"I thought I was being fairly subtle there."

"You were. I just know how you are, that's all." Steve sets his bottle of beer down, swipes a line through the condensation forming on it with his index finger. "One of the agents that came with us turned out to be Peggy's niece. Sharon Carter."

"You didn't mention this in your texts," Tony says.

"I know. I guess I've just been getting my head around it, you know? I thought, when I first saw Sharon, I thought it was Peggy for a moment. It was surprising, to say the least."

"I'll bet. She must be beautiful, then, if she looks like Peggy. Exceedingly beautiful."

"And terrifyingly efficient. She and Natasha get on extremely well."

"I'm beginning to feel threatened, Steve. Do I have competition?"

"You know you don't," Steve says bluntly, reaching over and covering one of Tony's hands. "You're stuck with me, I'm afraid. It's a domesticated life for you now."

Tony releases a dramatic sigh. "Well, we all have to make sacrifices, I guess." Steve lets go of his hand, kicks him lightly underneath the table with a mock glare, and Tony grins blithely, spotting Cleo returning with their meals.

He nurses the same bottle of beer throughout dinner, taking swigs of it when he remembers to, when he isn't distracted by the crinkles that shoot out of the corners of Steve's eyes every time he laughs. He tells Steve of the Earth Mover prototypes, of Rhodey's plans to open up a doughnut store because he knows Tony will be a faithful customer ("and let's face it, I'm all he needs for his business to stay afloat, right?"). Steve doesn't mention anything about the mission itself, but he does a perfect impression of Natasha's sultry voice, even the hint of a Russian accent that echoes behind it, and Clint's flustered reaction to it and that sets Tony off laughing hard enough that he has to clutch at his stomach.

" _Never_ do that again," Tony says breathlessly while he slowly regains composure. "I don't think I can handle a second time."

"I'm making no promises," Steve replies. He sits back in his chair and just smiles.

Tony finishes off his beer, sets it down where he can't accidentally knock it over, and with a bemused laugh, asks, "what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's nice seeing you laugh. It's nice knowing I'm the one who makes you laugh."

"Steve," Tony says, but nothing more. He still finds himself helpless in the face of Steve's open sincerity.

"I know. You're not so good with _feelings_ but." Steve shrugs. "It's true, so."

Tony places his elbows on the table and crosses his arms. "Actually, Rhodey and me, we had a conversation involving feelings a few days ago."

Steve makes the appropriately shocked face. "How did that happen?"

"He was – worried about me, I think. He saw me that day I went to see Samson and thought something was wrong."

"What did you tell him?"

"Told him I was fine. It's the truth. I _am_ fine."

"Rhodey just wants you to be happy."

" _Us_ ," Tony corrects. "He wants us to be happy."

"I am," Steve says. "Happy, that is. Are you?"

"What's the Bond telling you?"

Steve squeezes his hand once. "That you are."

"There's your answer, then," Tony says, nudging Steve's leg with his. "If I'm honest, we're doing better than I expected us to. _I'm_ doing better than I expected to. It's nice knowing that it wasn't just blind optimism on our part."

"I never doubted you, Tony. You can do extraordinary things when you put your mind to it."

"You're one to talk," Tony says. "So, what have you got planned next for us? We've had flowers, well, more like a _flower_ , and we've had dinner, surprisingly not a candle-lit one, but I'm still trying to decide if you lose points for that. What's next?"

"Dessert," Steve answers.

"The kind you can eat or...?" Tony trails off deliberately. It feels like they've been teasing each other all evening, flirting not with words but with heavy-lidded glances and fleeting touches to the hand or to the legs.

Steve's smile is replete with promise. "Be good," he says, "and you'll get both tonight." He pushes the dessert menu towards Tony. "Pick something. I want to feed you dessert."

Tony chooses the first thing he sees on the dessert menu and when the slice of strawberry cheesecake arrives, Steve, after glancing at the oblivious wait-staff, pulls Tony onto his lap. He carves out a spoonful and holds it to Tony's lips.

Tony closes his mouth around the spoon and chews, making a loud noise of appreciation. "Okay, _now_ I can say that this place has the Tony Stark stamp of approval."

"I'll let them know. They'll be overjoyed."

"As is only right. Aren't you going to have any?"

"Not really." Steve scoops out another piece. "I just wanted an excuse to have you on my lap."

"No excuses needed, Steve. You just have to tell me."

Steve's free hand clasps onto the jut of Tony's hipbone, his fingers fitting there like they're reclaiming indents he has already left behind, and he drops the spoon, using his fingers to pick up the piece of cake. Tony pulls his lips back, takes the offering with his teeth, and, after swallowing, fastidiously licks away the crumbs and hints of icing coating Steve's thumb and forefinger.

Steve's eyes are hooded as they watch the flicks of Tony's tongue attentively. "That's nice," he murmurs approvingly, pressing his thumb in. "That's _very_ nice, Tony." Tony hums, pleased, and opens his mouth again for every piece, shapes his tongue around Steve's fingers each time until every sweet speck of cake is gone from the plate and from Steve's hand.

He curls his tongue around Steve's thumb, hollows out his cheeks, and sucks, eyelashes falling against his cheeks for the brief moment he closes his eyes. He knows what it looks like, the pucker of his mouth, the gentle suction, and the subtle obscenity of it is not lost on Steve, who breathes in audibly, his hand at Tony's hip tightening its grip.

"I think it's time to go," Steve says roughly, pulling his thumb out, swiping it over Tony's lower lip.

Tony stands up, more than ready to leave everything behind for somewhere more private, a place where the thinly concealed hunger in Steve's face doesn't need to be concealed at all. He waits outside while Steve pays the bill, filled by an excited, impatient energy that doesn't let him stand entirely still.

"Hold tight," Steve says when he returns, nothing in his tone to suggest what he wants to do to Tony and everything in the Bond. 

Tony doesn't mention that he knows. He only makes sure his grip is firm and the engine roars beneath them. Steve drives faster than he had on their way to the restaurant, deftly weaving around cars and bends in the roads that are as familiar to him as the lifelines on his palm. The air is urgently rushing against Tony where Steve or his clothes aren't protecting his skin and though the streets are loud with the whining of engines, Tony can only hear his heart pounding into Steve's spine, surely fast enough for Steve to feel.

They pull into the garage soon enough and Steve cuts the engine off. Tony doesn't pull his arms away or climb down and they sit there, encased in a strange, thrilling silence, the kind that makes it feel like Tony's stomach is full of warm, fluttering things. Steve's hands slowly peel Tony's off his jacket. He swings a leg over the bike, takes off his helmet first and then Tony's.

"I've been staring at you all night," Steve says, pulling the dog tags out of Tony's shirt and tugging once. Tony climbs off the bike, taking a step back when Steve steps forwards and then taking a few more steps back each time Steve advances, the private elevator somewhere behind them. "I like this outfit on you."

"I know," Tony says. "That's why I wore it. It gets you to look at me like you just want to rip it off."

"You tease," Steve mutters. "Wearing that and using your tongue the way you did back in the restaurant."

"Have to keep you interested somehow, don't I?"

Steve shakes his head, walking Tony into the elevator. "Don't you know, Tony? I'm always interested. Always." Tony falls back against the wall and Steve places his forearm next to Tony's head, looming over Tony like a lazy predator. "Your room or mine?"

"Are you stealing lines from television shows again?"

"Your room or mine?" Steve asks again. He leans in, breath hot and damp against Tony's ear. "Answer the question, _Anthony_."

Tony sucks a breath in. "You're not allowed to say my name like that. That's not playing fair."

"Who says I have to play fair? I like saying it and you like hearing it. Now that I know it gets you flustered, every time I have you like this, you're going to be Anthony."

"Yours," Tony says. "Your room. I've been sleeping in there the whole week anyway, might as well carry on—" His words are pushed back into his mouth when Steve kisses him, hard, giving Tony no chance of reciprocating. Steve's hands find the back of Tony's thighs and _grip_ , a deliciously firm grip, hoisting him upwards, pinning him to the wall. The dog tags clatter from the roughness of the movement and Tony groans at the gracelessness of it, the sheer ease with which Steve can hold him there. He locks his legs around Steve's waist, throws his arms around Steve's shoulders, and when Steve finally allows it, Tony kisses back recklessly. The Bond, always a quiet thrum between them, is blazing now, wild fire in their blood, and Tony feels the heady barrage of _wantwantwant_ flooding in from Steve, thinks he'll never get used to that and never wants to.

Steve tastes like beer and spices tonight, his tongue running over Tony's lips, thrusting deep into Tony's mouth like he's trying to brand as much of it as he can. Steve slides his hands up from Tony's thighs to his ass and squeezes; Tony groans again, losing the sound somewhere under the sweep of Steve's tongue. Dimly, he registers the doors of the elevator opening, a startled voice that sounds like Natasha saying, " _oh_ , you guys are, I'll just, bye," but Steve is still holding his mouth captive and Tony finds words are far out of his reach. They kiss and kiss and kiss ravenously all the way to Steve's floor like the oxygen they need is in each other's mouths and then kiss some more as Steve walks them into his bedroom, the thought of stopping for longer than a moment too devastating.

"I want you so damn much," Steve says, presses, "I want you all the time, Anthony, do you even _know_ ," into Tony's neck, right to his pulse, and Tony thinks that he can feel the heat of the words even beyond the skin. They tumble down onto Steve's bed, Steve throwing out an arm just in time to prevent himself from crushing Tony beneath his bulk, but Tony wants it, wants that weight holding him down, and tries to pull Steve closer.

Steve breaks away easily, slipping out of his jacket, kicking off his shoes, and Tony tries to get to Steve's mouth again, whining, "no, Steve, kiss me, Steve, please, doesn't feel like five days, feels like you haven't touched me in _weeks_."

"I know," Steve replies, but infuriatingly, he doesn't give into Tony, works, instead, on taking Tony's shoes off and throwing them somewhere behind him. "I know, I know. But we need to talk first. I wanna treat you right. It's the only way we're gonna do this."

"Okay. Okay, just," Tony tugs at the back of Steve's neck again, Steve acquiescing at last, and Tony kisses him, long and wet. This kiss is less urgent, turning sweet at the end, with barely any pressure between their mouths.

Steve cups the side of his face and gently separates them. He drops onto his side, sneaking his arm underneath Tony and pulling him close, their legs tangling. "I wanna treat you right," he says again. "And I need you to tell me the things you like and don't like. Tell me everything you want to tell me."

Tony nods, turning his face into Steve's shoulder. Sex, he understands. Sex is a mess of body parts coming together to form one shape. It's heat and sweat, the slip slide of bodies and a moment of unravelling at the end. It's marks left behind on him from a playful mouth, it's ropes around his wrists and ankles and sometimes all across his body, it's him taking and being taken in equal measure until he thinks there's no more of him left.

"Tony? You okay?"

"Fine. Just thinking, that's all."

"Tell me," Steve says gently.

"I don't want any pain," Tony says without hesitation. He pauses and amends it to, "alright, maybe a little pain is fine, but the extreme kind doesn't do anything for me. I like it rough, bruising, hair-pulling, that's fine, that's," he feels a small surge of want, "more than fine. Just that I don't want to be flogged or choked or anything like that. I've been around the circuit long enough to figure out that pushing that limit isn't a good idea."

"I wasn't intending on hurting you, anyway," Steve says. His hand slides under Tony's shirt and sits at the small of his back, thumb stroking over Tony's spine. "I've seen it being done and it," his voice takes on a whimsical tone that makes Tony look up at him in curiosity, "I could see that the sub was enjoying it, lost in it, and watching that, watching her find pleasure, her face, that was what I loved most. But actually taking a whip in my hand? No, I can't do that. Just thinking about it leaves me feeling cold."

"I'm not surprised. You don't strike me as the kind of Dom who'd be into that."

"What kind of Dom do I strike you as?"

"The kind that'll take his sub apart with pleasure," Tony says softly. "I'm not wrong, am I?"

"No," Steve says, meeting Tony's eyes squarely. "You're not wrong at all." The naked desire on his face, the intensity of it, vows that Tony will be torn asunder, will ask for it in all the ways he can and love it. "What else?"

"No humiliation. I know I'll ask and beg for things, but I don't want to be mocked for it." Tony's mouth lifts into a thin smirk. "The others – they found something gratifying about humiliating me, apparently."

"You won't ever go through that again," Steve promises fiercely and with every ounce of conviction that Captain America has ever possessed. "You're safe with me, Tony."

"I know I am. I know." Tony sighs, relieved, and continues. "Nothing to do with bodily fluids, either, other than the obvious ones."

"I'm not interested in any other bodily fluids other than the obvious ones."

"I'm clean, by the way. And the Serum's sorted you out for life, hasn't it, so I'm fine with ditching condoms if you are." Tony tries not to think about Steve pressing into him bare, feeling every inch of Steve's cock inside him, but he can't help it and barely represses a shiver, biting down on his lip.

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. "I am." Tony doesn't know if he's aware of how his hand has moved down to sit on the curve of Tony's ass. "Is there anything else?"

"That's pretty much it, really. Except, maybe blindfolds? I'm not comfortable with being blindfolded. It's not off limits, but I don't like it."

"Can you tell me why?"

"I just like knowing where I am," Tony says flatly. Steve nods and touches the space beneath Tony's eyes, where his lashes fall each time he closes his eyes. His expression is odd enough that Tony asks, "is it something you wanted to do?"

"I was thinking of it, yeah. Do you reckon it might be something we can work towards?"

"I – don't know. Maybe? I'll have to think about it."

"Yes, of course. We can talk about that another time."

"What about you? Is there anything you won't do?"

Steve stares up at the ceiling in thought. "Nothing you haven't covered already," he answers eventually. When he looks back down, the meditative expression is gone and what sits in its place, an expression dark and curious, makes Tony's heart trip over itself. "Now," Steve says, voice distinctly lower, deeper. He pushes himself up onto a forearm, leans his body over Tony's. "Tell me about the things you _do_ like. Do you like being denied?"

Tony shifts slightly, his jeans beginning to feel tighter. "Yeah, I," his own voice has become hoarse and he clears his throat, "yes, I do."

"And what about the opposite? Being forced to come over and over again, do you like that?"

"Yes. That – I want that, too."

Steve's smile is slow and pleased and heat unfurls across Tony's skin like an Indian summer. "So do I."

"You could gag me. Keep me quiet and make me take whatever you want to do to me."

"I could, but I won't. I want to hear you. Every sound you make, I want it. They belong to me now."

"I'd beg for you," Tony says instantly.

"You will," Steve says with a certainty that only makes Tony's breath short and his cock press against his jeans harder. "Will you let me tie you up, too? Because I want to. I want to tie you up with red and gold ropes and see how they look against your skin, maybe try some of those intricate knots that run all over your body."

"God, yes, I want all of that," Tony whispers longingly. "I have things. Toys. I'll show you. You can use them on me if you want."

"Toys, huh? We'll see."

Tony's hips cant up without his permission, pushing his cock against the flat of Steve's stomach. Steve's hand pushes him down back against the bed and Tony forces his body to stay that way. "Sorry. I. Didn't mean to. Sorry."

"It's fine," Steve reassures. "I didn't tell you not to." He moves his hand down and rests it gently over the front of Tony's jeans, a teasing sort of pressure. "Look at how hard you're getting already, Anthony."

"Can we talk more later? Please, I want. Something. Anything." 

Steve hums thoughtfully, like he is content to stay there all day and consider it. Finally, he says, "if you need me to stop whatever I'm doing or you need a minute, tell me right away and I'll do it. You have a safeword, don't you?"

"I use colours. Red, yellow, green."

"You can use them too, if you want. Whatever you choose, I'll listen, understand?"

"I understand."

Steve buries his fingers in Tony's hair and tugs his head back, mouthing along Tony's jaw. "I want to see you. I want you to take your clothes off. I'd do it myself, but," Steve breathes out a chuckle, "I think I'll end up ripping the shirt and we both know how much I like this one." Tony laughs into Steve's mouth as they kiss again, their teeth clacking. He likes that he can laugh even now.

Steve moves away from the bed and takes a few steps back. "Take your clothes off, Anthony," he orders, his voice sliding down into an intimate register that only Tony will ever get to hear.

Tony stands up and begins stripping himself under the thrilling heaviness of Steve's gaze. Somehow, the air in the room has disappeared and there is a tightness building in Tony's chest with each piece of clothing he takes off. He is well aware of the scarred skin surrounding the arc reactor, but he refuses to let himself be ashamed of it and as he pulls his undershirt over his head, Tony holds Steve's eyes almost defiantly, watches his face carefully for any reaction. Steve's face doesn't change, remaining intense and unerringly trained on Tony's body, roaming over every inch of skin as it is bared. Tony pulls his jeans and boxers down in one go, kicks them aside, and his cock, flushing a deepening red, smacks against his belly, leaving a wet smear.

"Come here," Steve says. Tony takes the few steps that'll bring them close again, trying to keep his breathing even. He feels raw. He feels vulnerable, stripped bare from more than his clothes. Steve can _see_ him, inside and out, and there's no more hiding for Tony, no more of the walls he has carefully constructed and kept himself within all these years. He's exposed, so terribly exposed, and this, he thinks, is what he is without his armour. This is the answer to what Steve had asked a year ago. Steve must feel his struggle if not see it, because he gathers Tony into his arms, tucking Tony's head beneath his chin. Tony goes slack against him almost immediately, drawing comfort from the touch. "I'm gonna take such good care of you. You don't have to do anything but let me."

It's all Tony wants and needs. It's all he aches for. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yes, please."

"Good," Steve says into Tony's hair, waiting another moment and then drawing back completely. "I'm going to touch you now, Anthony, but you aren't allowed to touch me." He glances down at Tony's cock and Tony feels the ache still building there insistently. "Or touch yourself, either."

Tony nods and quietly voices his agreement. Steve cradles the side of Tony's face, his thumb stroking his upper lip for a moment, and then he moves down over his throat, Tony swallowing against the fleeting touch of fingertips. Feather-light, Steve drifts from Tony's throat to the collarbones he has already traced with his tongue a few times before, the shoulders and arms, lingering over the swell of biceps. "I've been wanting to touch you like this for so long," Steve says. Tony opens his mouth, closes it again, looking at Steve for permission, and Steve adds, "you can talk if you want."

"Why," Tony says, arms shaking with the need to do _something_ with them, "have you waited? You could've had me like this from the beginning."

"I needed to know that you want this as much as I do, that you weren't only saying it because you think you should. Nothing will make me take from you what you don't want to give."

Tony feels the sudden urge to thank Steve. He doesn't, forgetting the words when Steve idly circles around his nipples. Steve hears Tony's intake of breath, smiles wickedly at the sound of it but does nothing more, pausing with his hands draped over Tony's pectorals. Solemnly, he asks, "will it make you uncomfortable if I touch the arc reactor?" 

"No, that's fine. It's you. It's fine."

Steve's face softens. He strokes the thick skin wreathing the arc reactor, touching white scars laced over each other. Some are numb to feeling while others make Tony's mouth open in quiet half-gasps when Steve grazes over them, but for the most part, that is not what has Tony's breath snagging from time to time. Steve's touch is not mere curiosity, his fingers are not exploring so much as they are caressing with a reverence wholly unfamiliar to Tony.

"Breathe, Anthony," Steve says suddenly, both hands rubbing up and down the sides of Tony's stomach. "Breathe." Tony makes himself push out the breath he had kept tucked in his lungs. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," Tony says hastily. "It's just. They're scars. I didn't expect you to touch them the way you did."

"Why? Are you ashamed of them?"

"No, and I never will be. But they're still scars. You touch them like they're not."

"You're gorgeous," Steve says, the Bond filling up with his sincerity as water floods an empty lake. The glow from the arc reactor fuses with his eyes, lighting them up like flashes of lightning, and Tony knows he's looking at something gorgeous, too. "I've always thought so, right from when we first met, and that hasn't changed."

Steve goes no lower than Tony's waist and walks around, leisurely dragging his hand across Tony's stomach and over to the small of his back as he moves. He follows the slope of Tony's spine upwards, catching the beads of sweat slicking the dip, before following the same path back down and further down still, cupping Tony's ass.

"Steve, please," Tony says at the tight squeeze of Steve's fingers. 

Steve takes away the inch of distance that keeps them apart and presses himself firmly against Tony, a solid line of warmth and muscle beneath soft cotton. His hands glide away from Tony's ass and Tony lets out a small noise when they stroke the insides of his thighs where he's almost embarrassingly sensitive. His neglected cock jerks hard, fresh pre-come trickling out from the tip.

"I should have a new rule," Steve murmurs into Tony's ear. "You don't get to keep your clothes on when you're in my room. It'd be a shame to hide all of this away, when you're so beautiful. What do you think? Would you like to be naked and available for me to touch whenever I felt like it?" Tony shivers against Steve and nods. "Words, Anthony. Tell me how much you'd like that."

"So much," Tony breathes out, struck by how true his words are. "I want you to be able to do whatever you want with me whenever you feel like it." Without thinking, he raises a hand to wrap around his cock, squeeze just a little, only to remember Steve's words and let his hand falls back down to his side.

"Good, Anthony, good," Steve says, voice rich with approval, making Tony feel light. His hands are still distractingly skittering up and down Tony's thighs, enticingly close to his cock but not close enough. "You're being so good for me, holding yourself back like that. I know what you need and I'll give it to you. Lie down on the bed for me."

Steve steps away and Tony forces his mouth shut, keeps his protest firmly trapped, as he returns to the bed. The cool sheets are soothing against his heated skin, but do nothing for the faint tremors running through him. All Steve has done is touch him and already Tony knows he is unspooling, faster than he had ever before.

"Kinda drove me crazy, knowing you were here in my bed while I was gone," Steve says, placing one knee down on the bed. His fingers trail light as spring rain over the outside of Tony's legs as he settles himself in between Tony's spread legs. "I'd keep you here if I could." Any other time and Tony would object, but not now, not when Steve is looking at him, visibly enthralled by the sight of Tony. Beneath Steve's eyes, Tony feels eager to please, feels gorgeous and wanted and sensual all at the same time. Steve takes Tony's hands, crosses them at the wrists above Tony's head and presses them into the bed. It feels gentle enough, but Tony knows that if he tries, he won't be able to break the hold, that Steve's fingers have the immovability of an implacable wall behind them, and the knowledge makes Tony moan _loud_. "God, I really am going to tie you up if you sound like that," Steve mutters. "You love being held down, don't you."

"Makes me feel safe," Tony says honestly.

"But you want me to hold tighter, make you bruise. If I did, you'd ask for more."

"So that I can touch them afterwards and remember. Don't you want that, Steve? Me, walking around with your marks on my body? Maybe no one would know that they were there, but I would know and so would you."

Steve makes a sound akin to a growl and kisses Tony, tightening his grip on Tony's wrists minutely. It only makes Tony relax into the bed, pliant under the strength he can sense, his lips parting for Steve without a second's thought. Steve's kiss is unrelenting, teeth scraping at Tony's lips, but his free hand strokes at Tony's hipbone oddly sweet and tender. "Leave your hands like that," he says, brushing his lips against Tony's arm. With his mouth in place of his fingers, Steve retraces the paths he had mapped out across Tony's body only a few moments ago, hunger renewed as if there are still secrets embedded in Tony's skin for him to excavate with tongue and teeth. Tony shakes underneath him as all the soft places of his body are found and tasted and venerated, Steve slowly dismantling him with each careful lick and suck and shocking ease.

"You're so much more responsive than I thought you'd be," Steve says, swiping his hand through the pool of pre-come on Tony's stomach.

"That's—" Tony feels embarrassed all of a sudden at the noises he can't hold back, "—a good thing, isn't it? Or do you want me—"

"It's perfect," Steve cuts in, "you're perfect, don't think for a second you have to change." He doesn't give Tony a chance to speak, dragging his nails down the inside of Tony's thighs. Tony lets out a choked noise. "It's so convenient that you're so sensitive here," Steve says almost giddily, like he has stumbled onto something particularly delightful.

"Please touch me," Tony pleads.

"I _am_ touching you," Steve replies, amused and mischievous. His hands pointedly run up and down Tony's thighs.

"Please touch my cock," Tony says again, thick with need.

Steve strokes the crease between Tony's hip and thigh silently and then leans forwards, mouth pressing against the arc reactor for a brief moment, before he reaches for the bedside drawer. Tony waits with breathless anticipation, his fingers twisting around each other uselessly where he's holding them up, and then _finally_ , Steve's hand, coated with slick grown warm from the heat of his skin, wraps around Tony's cock and squeezes. Tony's hips jump up involuntarily, driving his cock through the slippery grasp, and his mouth curls around a soundless gasp, the trembling that never went away from his body gathering in his thighs now. Steve glides his hand down the length of Tony's cock in a slow, long stroke and then back up again, pulling out a grated sound from Tony's throat along with the upstroke.

"Steve," Tony moans out. " _Steve_."

"You even have a pretty cock," Steve says with an easy stroke of his hand before tightening his thumb and forefinger around Tony. "Fuck my hand, Anthony, I know you want to, move your hips," and Tony rocks up instantly, pushes his cock into the circle of Steve's fingers, groaning out at the sweet friction. "That's it," Steve croons encouragingly, "let yourself enjoy this. You feel good, don't you? You should, you deserve to feel good all the time, I'll do that for you."

"Other way around," Tony forces out, though he wants what Steve is offering so intensely that every inch of him is screaming in relief. "Should make _you_ feel good."

"No," Steve says heatedly, leaning forwards so that all Tony can see is him, his vivid eyes and his broad shoulders, " _this_ is how it should be, this is how it'll be with us." Tony can't argue against that, doesn't want to argue against that, and Steve doesn't look like he'll stand for it, either, his gaze intent like he is daring Tony to challenge him. He slides his thumb across the tip of Tony's cock and Tony jolts helplessly into it, making soft, frail sounds. "I knew you'd be gorgeous, but I didn't realise just how much," Steve whispers, like he's captivated, and he _is_ , Tony knows he is, the Bond is telling Tony that he is, and that feels best of all, knowing that he's pleasing Steve. "I love seeing you like this, Anthony, and you're so good for letting me make you like this."

When Tony closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, an image seeps through the back of his eyelids, a flash of himself: his face flushed and strained from pleasure, his hips rolling slowly, swollen cock emerging out of the bind of Steve's fingers with each upward roll. He opens his eyes, eyelashes quivering, panting open-mouthed, and wonders if this is what Steve is seeing, if the Bond is giving him a glimpse. Steve watches him fixedly, his attention fuelling the feverish heat prickling Tony's skin, and his words still circling around in Tony's head. All Tony wants is to be called good again, good and gorgeous.

"Tell me, Anthony," Steve says, "what do you think of when you touch yourself?"

"You," Tony says on a shaky breath. "It's only been you for some time."

" _Good_ ," Steve purrs richly. He cradles Tony's balls with his other hand, spreading more of the warm lube there, and caresses them just firm enough to derail Tony's thoughts. "Tell me what you imagine," he orders and Tony has to fight to pull out a coherent answer.

"Your – fingers, your fingers on my cock, and, your, imagine your mouth when I'm fucking my hand."

"Do you put your fingers inside yourself? Do you imagine they're my fingers spreading you open?"

"Not just your fingers, Steve, fuck—"

Steve's hand pauses and Tony cries out at it. "What else?" Steve asks, his voice still silky and the sound of it rubs against Tony's skin luxuriously. "My fingers and what else?"

"Your cock," Tony answers quickly, "in me."

That earns him a twist at the head of his cock, a finger lightly stroking the skin behind his balls, and a sound from Steve's throat so full of yearning. "You're going to show me this one day," Steve says lowly, leaving no doubt that it's a command. Even if it hadn't been, Tony already knows he won't be able to deny Steve. "I'm going to make you touch yourself until you're right at the edge and the only thing that'll keep you from coming is just one word from me. I'll hold it back, wait until you're going out of your damn mind, and then I'll let you come. You'd love that, wouldn't you. I already know you would."

" _Yes_ , yes, God, Steve, I'm so close," Tony groans, his hips moving mindlessly faster by themselves, Steve's words sitting like a tangible pressure on his aching cock. "I need, I need—"

"Let go, I've got you, let go," Steve says and he kisses Tony's skittish pulse, murmurs, "Anthony," sweet and coaxing, "come into my hand, give me that, I want to see you."

Tony can't disappoint that voice, can't refuse Steve this or anything else he might ask of Tony. He rolls his hips into Steve's fingers, feels the perfect constriction of Steve's fingers and the slick glide once more, and then his orgasm sweeps over him, come splattering over his torso. Tony trembles, Steve's name soundless on his tongue, not enough breath left in him even for a gasp. Steve nuzzles the side of Tony's face, murmuring through it all, "good, so very good for me, you don't even have to try, do you," and he sounds proud, so proud and pleased, that Tony cares for nothing else, wants only to curl up inside that affectionate voice. He sinks under it gladly, the tension in his body waning until it's just contentment that has him lax against the bed, Steve still peppering his closed lids, cheeks, and jaw with soft kisses and even softer whispers. "That was beautiful, Anthony. That was everything I wanted."

Tony turns his face into every drag of Steve's lips and stores away his words greedily. Steve lifts his hand up and as languid as Tony is, the sight of Steve's hand splattered with his own come prods at that hot pool of lust he thought had just abated. "Taste yourself," Steve says. Tony obediently licks a stripe across Steve's palm, overlooking the tang of bitterness for the way the lapping of his tongue fascinates Steve. Steve slants his mouth over Tony's and dips his tongue in, groaning quietly at the taste he finds. Tony doesn't kiss back so much as he lets himself be kissed slow and careful, Steve lingering like he can't quite bring himself to stop.

When Steve does finally pull back, he studies Tony, as if memorising the picture that Tony makes. Though he is stretched out still and his come is streaking his chest, Tony doesn't feel self-conscious, only admired. "Everything I wanted," Steve says again, more to himself than Tony.

Tony blinks rapidly, feeling a distant prick to his eyes and willing it to pass quickly. "That," he says slowly, "was quite the handjob."

"I'll need practice with the other one," Steve says and Tony groans.

"No, no, I just came, you can't say things like that, my dick isn't ready for talking about blowjobs." It doesn't occur to him at first, not until Steve leans over him again to fix their mouths together and Tony feels something hard dig into his hip. He pulls himself out of his sluggishness, reaching down for Steve's jeans, but Steve grabs his wrist.

"Not yet."

"Why not?" Tony asks, dismayed.

"You sound so disappointed," Steve says, his amusement soft and not mocking. "Just not yet."

"But soon?" And now, Tony just sounds hopeful.

"Soon. Stay there. I'm just gonna grab something to clean you up."

It feels colder the moment Steve is gone from his side, but he returns quickly with a warm cloth, wiping Tony clean in efficient strokes.

"I stained your clothes," Tony says, noticing the flecks on Steve's shirt.

Steve looks down. "So you did."

"You should take them off," Tony suggests, like he's not using it as an excuse to see Steve naked.

"I should, shouldn't I?" Steve's small smile says he can see right through Tony, but he sits back on his heels anyway and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Tony pushes himself up onto his elbows, staring as if he hasn't seen naked skin before. Stolen glimpses in the gym, when Steve pulled up the end of his shirt and wiped the sweat off his face with it, and the clinging outline of his uniform have long told Tony how exquisitely Steve is formed, but the difference between knowing and seeing it for himself is astounding.

Steve shrugs out of his shirt with a smooth roll of his shoulders, tugs off his undershirt with one easy pull, dropping both on the floor behind him. Arousal has left a flush spreading from his neck to his chest like a lurid sunset and Tony wants desperately to follow the spread of red where it runs over the ridge of collarbones and down to pink nipples with his mouth. Steve steps off the bed to stand and unbutton his jeans, hooks his thumb behind the waistband, each move confident, deliberate, meant to tease and seize Tony's attention and Tony is all but trapped. Steve is all too aware of what he's doing to Tony, a teasing slant to his smile as he pulls his jeans and boxers down, bending over to toe himself out of them, his back a broad stretch of unblemished skin. When Steve straightens, it makes Tony's breath wither in his lungs. Steve's cock is standing erect and deep red and Tony wants to touch it, stretch his mouth around its thickness, take it into his body where it'll feel impossibly big and reach in so far. He just _wants_ and he hopes that Steve can feel the depth of that tremendous desire and understand without a doubt how, by simply standing there in nothing but his own skin, Steve makes Tony redefine what he thinks of as perfection.

"You're something else," Tony says quietly, knowing Steve will hear. "There are no words for you."

Steve closes his eyes like he is stealing a moment to languish in something and then returns to the bed to sit up against the headboard. "I know the feeling," he says, beckoning Tony closer.

Tony straddles Steve's thighs without a thought, the first touch of their bare skin exquisite. He breathes in and says, "I wanna touch you, like you did to me before."

Steve watches him carefully. "Go ahead."

Tony cups Steve's face, strokes his cheeks, and then follows the same path Steve had taken over Tony's body, trailing across Steve's throat until the breadth of his shoulders are beneath Tony's hands. The weight of the world could rest on these shoulders and they would seemingly never break, but Tony knows better, has seen the quiet moments when they have faltered and appreciates their strength all the more because of it. He presses his mouth against one shoulder briefly, pausing in case Steve wants Tony to use only his hands. Steve says nothing and Tony moves down onto the sculpted curves of Steve's arms, sliding his mouth across them, too, sucking at the tender patch of skin on the inside of Steve's elbows. Tony fans out his fingers on Steve's chest, feels the pulse of the Steve's heart thudding under the corner of one palm. He moves his palm out of the way and leaves a kiss there like a delicate offering. 

"I understand," Steve says suddenly, but not loudly. "What you meant before, about how I touched your scars. I understand now what you mean."

"You should," Tony says. He glances at Steve's face, keeping his eyes locked with Steve's as he dips down and kisses the same spot again. Tony traces out the hard muscles lying beneath the plane of Steve's stomach, his hands parting and darting in opposite directions to cradle Steve's hipbones. His thumbs rub over the sharp cut of them several times while he stares at Steve's cock.

"Okay, I gotta ask," Tony says. "Were you, uh, this big before the Serum?"

"Yes," Steve says, clearly amused. "I was."

"Oh, God, that's so unbelievably hot," Tony mutters and Steve laughs a little. Tony scoots himself backwards onto Steve's knees for ease and lightly runs a finger down the side of Steve's cock, watching it twitch and strain as if it wants to bend towards Tony's touch. Slowly, he thumbs back the foreskin, thumbs over the dripping, rosy tip, and drags the pre-come down to the base, feeling how hot and heavy Steve's cock is, how the width of it makes Tony widen his fist to keep his hand still curled around it. He squeezes gently, expecting the small thrust of Steve's hips, the rumble in Steve's chest, and still rapt by it. It'd be so easy, he thinks, to just bend down and lick at the head of Steve's cock, close his mouth around it and just _suck_ , it'd be so easy—

"Stop," Steve orders and Tony freezes, comes back to himself, finds that he's much closer to Steve's cock than he was before, his breath softly hitting the glistening tip just as another surge of pre-come pours out. Tony has to swallow because his mouth is watering. He licks his dry lips, looks up, and is arrested. Steve's breathing is more laboured now, the lines of his face tight, intense, painted crimson by a strong flush, and he's looking at Tony like he wants to devour Tony whole. "You're hard again," he says and Tony suddenly becomes aware of the ache that is burning in his groin once more, deepened by the rasp that has overtaken Steve's usually smooth baritone. "It's the thought of putting your mouth on my cock that's made you hard, isn't it," Steve continues, hardly a question. "You really want it that much."

"I do," Tony answers honestly. He doesn't know how to explain just how much he wants to put his mouth on Steve and bring him to an orgasm that rushes out of him and down into Tony's welcoming throat.

Steve combs his fingers through Tony's hair as he thinks and then says, "you will wait," softly, but no less authoritatively. It makes Tony shiver and sharpens his need into something finer. He will wait; it'll only make it better in the end. "Next time, you can use your mouth. But right now," Steve pulls Tony forwards again, their cocks sliding against each other with a delicious, wet friction that makes Tony cry out and Steve groan, "I'm going to make you come again."

"Yes, God, yes, please," Tony babbles.

"Hands on my shoulders," Steve says, his own hands framing Tony's hips. Tony grips tightly onto Steve's shoulders, his palms sweaty. "Now," Steve says, his voice carrying an edge given to it by the desire he has been suppressing all this time, "rub against me, Anthony."

Tony doesn't waste a second in complying. He grinds his cock against Steve's and moans at the electric scrape of pleasure, so sharp that his hips roll again and again without pause, seeking out more of it. The heat and pulse of Steve's cock against his, its hardness and the slick of the pre-come coating it, it all makes his arousal so fierce that he would've thought he hadn't come once already. He glances at Steve's face and it's a mistake that makes the strain in his cock grow exponentially, it's a sight that makes his hips stutter and almost come to a stop.

Steve's expression is a wonderful blend of intensity and focus, reverence and affection. It makes Tony's mind spin and he has to dig his fingers into Steve's shoulders to ground himself. "Steve," he whispers, but he isn't sure what to say. "Steve, you."

Steve slips an arm around Tony's waist, brings them even closer, says, "got you, I've got you." He grasps both of them in one large hand and strokes fast, the calluses of his fingers more discernible but Tony enjoys the roughness they lend, thrusting involuntarily into Steve's grip. Steve grunts, orders in a guttural voice, "faster, Anthony, faster, _good_ , that's it, you're perfect, so perfect." Tony chases helplessly after the bright flares of friction that sweep up his cock and shudder through to the rest of his body with every thrust, his desperate pace spurred on by Steve's words. His mouth is ajar, spilling out moans he has no hope of silencing, and just above them, he can hear Steve's broken, heated murmurs, "can't wait to get my mouth on you, fingers inside of you, going to hear what you sound like then, watch you _writhe_ for me, you'll be so beautiful, Anthony." Steve mouths at Tony's neck, sucks hard at the skin and scrapes his teeth along it until it feels tender. "I'm going to draw this, you, looking like this," he tells Tony, softly against his jaw, as if whispering a confession. "Just for us to see, nobody else. I want to have you in every way I can and draw you afterwards each time, so you can see just how breath-taking you look."

It's intensely erotic, that thought. Tony knows how meticulous Steve can be with his drawings, thinking through every miniscule detail and pencilling it in carefully. It rattles Tony to imagine Steve doing the same with the memory of Tony desperate and flushed on his lap or spread naked and languorous on his bed. The hand that has been bruising into Tony's hip all along slides down to cup one ass cheek, the casual possessiveness of it making Tony, without thought, gasp out, "yes, yours, it's all yours."

Steve makes a small, startled noise, his fingers pausing abruptly. Then, they momentarily tighten like a vice around their cocks before stroking brisker, hurtling them towards the end even faster. "Now, Anthony, come _now_ , come with me," he says, the ring of command in his voice resonating directly to Tony's cock, and Tony obeys, spilling into Steve's hand, over his thighs and their bellies. He quakes like he's breaking apart from the inside out, quakes for the second time tonight under Steve's orders.

"Already love the way you look when you come," Steve murmurs, wonderfully hoarse in his orgasm, his cock still jerking. If Tony hadn't just spent himself, then the scratch in Steve's voice, the feel of his come dripping onto Tony's skin might have stirred his arousal again. Steve's hand is still curled atop both of them, gentle, the sensation just the right amount of _too much_. "It makes me want to pin you down and make you come over and over again just so I could watch. You won't touch yourself again after this, Anthony. That's for me to do now. I want to be the only one who makes you feel so good and takes care of you in that way."

Tony falls forwards, all of his weight pressing against Steve's heaving chest, hands dropping from Steve's shoulders. "Anything," he says into Steve's collarbones, tasting salt beneath his lips. "Anything." A few ragged breaths later, he asks, "was I still everything you wanted?"

"More than everything," Steve replies swiftly. He rubs up and down Tony's back with his unsoiled hand, ignoring the sweat. "I meant it when I said I could watch you over and over again."

Tony blissfully eases into satisfaction at that, nuzzling at Steve's neck. He glances down at the sticky mess in between them and something about the taste of them together compels him to take Steve's hand and clean it with his tongue. Their mingled flavour is sharp, strong in its bitterness. Steve draws it out from Tony's mouth when they kiss in lazy slides of lips and tongues that end with their mouths open, but unattached, just breathing into each other. Tony blinks slowly, feeling the indolence more acutely this time round, wanting to simply sit here, pressed against Steve and be stroked.

"You look like you're five seconds away from falling asleep," Steve says gently. "You gonna let me clean us both up before that happens?"

"Tempted not to."

"Just give me a minute and then you can go to sleep."

"Alright," Tony mumbles, letting himself be moved around. The touch of a cloth gently wiping at his stomach and thighs is a vague sensation and then Steve is tipping him down onto the bed, one hand sitting on the back of Tony's neck even as his attention is directed elsewhere. The point of contact is soothing. Tony absently kisses Steve's forearm, watches sleepily as Steve throws the cloth aside and sidles closer to Tony. It's warm, almost too warm, cocooned in Steve's arms, but Tony isn't ready to let go of how their skin feels sliding together. He closes his eyes, looping his arm around Steve's waist.

"Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"Stay here. I mean, move into my room."

"You know, I think I already have," Tony says. "I've got some of my clothes in your wardrobe. You had to have seen them already."

"I did," Steve says. "I just thought they were there for convenience."

"Well, I don't see why the rest of my clothes can't follow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Steve's lips press into the mess of Tony's hair. "Good."

"Think of all the ways I can wake you up in the morning, Steve."

Steve groans. "Don't. You may have come twice, but I haven't and you're not ready for anything more yet."

Tony hides his smile against Steve's chest, right where his heart is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more rambling: I seem to have developed some sort of hand/fingers kink in that last section. It was unforeseen. But the shameless, self-indulgent use of 'Anthony' and the shaving scene was very much foreseen. Just two references this chapter, _Skyfall_ and _Indian Jones and The Temple of Doom_. I've never been to therapy myself and had to do some research, so I hope that part came across fine, and in case anyone was wondering about Steve's new uniform, it's his incredibly hot, incredibly fabulous Commander Rogers uniform. Some bad news now unfortunately - the chances of ch.23 arriving sometime in the next two months are very slim. I've got upcoming exams and essays, so I'll be stuck in the library and the majority of my attention will be on that. This fic won't be abandoned, so don't worry about that, and as my Tumblr folk should know, I procrastinate a lot, so who knows, the next chapter might not take ages to appear, after all. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to reading all your comments! :D


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rejoice, for I have returned. Or don't, it's up to you, really. Difficult chapter to write, this one, and the next one will be the same. Thank you all for waiting, I know it's been a while, and thank you also for the comments + kudos, they are, as always, much appreciated. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

"JARVIS, what time is it?" Tony whispers.

"Five twenty five a.m.," JARVIS replies at a much quieter volume than usual.

Tony blinks. Somehow, he's woken first.

Steve is trained in escaping the clutch of dreams at slight sounds and brief movements, but he's also growing accustomed to a restless sleeper like Tony and doesn't move when Tony slowly turns onto his side. He almost raises a hand to touch Steve's face, but decides it'd be a terrible crime to ruin the serenity sitting there.

Steve writes love letters with his old-young eyes and the words are becoming startlingly clear to Tony. He glimpsed them last night when they showed themselves in Steve's face and he already knows he'll see more and more of them as they go on occupying each other's spaces. What he doesn't know is what to do with them and this is problematic, this is out of the ordinary, because Tony makes it his business to _know_ and yet – and yet.

His thoughts are disrupted when Steve's hand slides down from Tony's hipbone, down his thigh to his knee and then back up again. "No brooding in bed," he mumbles and the edge of Tony's mouth quirks up. He's discovered that he likes this short period where Steve, slowly waking, has little hold on his voice and his accent manifests itself more clearly, the Brooklyn boy living at Captain America's core shining through.

"It's not brooding. It's introspection."

Sleepy blue eyes clear themselves with each lazy blink. "Too early for you to be picky about words."

"Too _early_? Did I just hear you say that it's too early for something? Should I be expecting the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse next?"

Steve mumbles a reply that sounds like, "don't forget the rain of fire," before moving his head closer.

Tony meets him halfway, muttering, "morning breath," but he really doesn't mind, tangling his fingers into the hair at Steve's nape and leaning into the kiss with all of his body. Steve hums contentedly, pulls Tony's leg up and rests it over his own waist, leaving his hand hooked around Tony's knee. "Shouldn't you be going for your morning run? New Yorkers will be waiting for their daily glimpse of a sweaty Captain America."

"I'm sure they'll survive a day without it."

"Mmm, yeah, they can deal with it," Tony grins, ruining the kiss, and Steve bites at his lower lip in retribution.

"Tony."

"Steve."

"What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I assume you want the truth here and not the funny one-liner?"

"You assume right."

Tony shrugs one shoulder. "I was just having one of those moments when I realise yet again how serious a relationship is."

A small crease appears in between Steve's eyebrows. "Does this have something to do with last night?"

"Last night was good," Tony says as he rubs Steve's frown away with the pad of his thumb. "Last night was very good. It was also—" the most intimately anyone had touched him in a year, "—exposing."

Steve wraps his fingers around Tony's wrist and keeps it motionless. "And that made you uncomfortable, I know. Does it still?"

The time it takes for Tony to consider his answer stretches out over several heartbeats. "No. I think I'm okay with it."

"You think?"

"I know. I know that I want it to happen again."

"You've been denying yourself. I won't let you do that any longer."

"You won't let me, huh?" Tony says. His words are too empty of defiance to make them any sort of challenge, even a teasing one. "That's more than fine by me."

Steve rests his forehead against Tony's. "There's so much I want to do with you," he says and the honest longing contained in that one sentence catches Tony off guard, hits and carries him off like a sweeping wave.

"We'll do all of it," he promises when he finds his voice again.

"We have time," Steve says and it sounds like he is reassuring himself of this fact more than anything.

"We do," Tony says firmly. "Lots and lots of time."

"Yeah," Steve whispers. After that, it's just silence between them, softly punctuated by the wet sounds of their mouths sliding and catching together. Steve throws aside the blanket draped over them and Tony gradually shifts onto his back, opening his legs for Steve to claim the space between them, tracing meaningless shapes over the contours of Steve's back.

Steve revisits the marks he left behind on Tony's throat the previous night and Tony shudders, needing to close his eyes at the resurgence of remembered sensations. Only a scarf or make-up borrowed from Natasha will hide the work of Steve's clever mouth. "Tell me you don't have plans for today," Steve says.

Tony clutches at Steve's shoulder when Steve descends to the skin around the arc reactor and swipes his tongue over it slowly like he's relishing the strange texture. "I, uh, need to call Pepper later about – _Steve_ , what are you—"

"Go on," Steve says, lingering over Tony's heart, tasting its quickening beats. "Call Pepper and?"

"That's all. Why, are you planning on taking me hostage?"

"Yeah, actually, I was. I want you with me today."

"Okay," Tony agrees easily. "Tell me what to do, what you want to do."

"You're not even gonna mention how you need to be in your workshop for at least an hour or your genius will, I don't know, decay?"

"No, and my genius doesn't decay, it only grows."

"That just makes me think of fungus, Tony." Tony begins to voice an objection, but Steve kisses him quiet and breathes out, "you were perfect last night," into Tony's mouth the same devastatingly candid way he had said _everything I wanted_ and _there's so much I want to do with you_. "You'll be the same for me tonight."

Tony feels it again, the immense satisfaction of being what Steve wants and the resolve to keep it that way always. "I'll be the same for you every night," he says, his reward another series of kisses that work together to trap him in a daze. Tony gives into it so easily that the roll of Steve's hips comes unexpectedly; his breath stutters in his chest like a faulty engine while Steve smiles, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"You know what, Tony?" Steve says, teeth at the shell of Tony's ear and one hand drifting over the side of Tony's thigh.

"What?"

"I think I'll go for that run, after all."

" _What_?" Tony shakes his head, tries to stop Steve from pulling away. "You—" can't, is what he wants to say, but they both know that Steve can. Steve can leave Tony here with the arousal pulsing softly through his body and Tony will still be aching for him when he returns.

"I what?" Steve asks. "I can't?"

"You can."

"You'll be good and wait. That goes without saying."

"It does," Tony replies. Steve pushes himself up onto his knees and stretches, a fascinating show of muscle and sinew pulling tight against pale skin that makes Tony's throat turn dry. Last night's brief exploration isn't nearly enough – Tony wants days and days of just touching and tasting this body, understanding its mechanics and its power, learning its shivers and stories. "Wow," he says. "I really did luck out with you."

Steve says, "you just want me for my body," laughing like he thinks Tony is being ridiculous and it saddens Tony for a moment, saddens him incredibly that Steve has had more time in his life to become accustomed to being overlooked than to being admired.

He sits up, grabs Steve's hand before he's aware of even doing it, and says with great seriousness, "no, that's not true. It's not."

Steve reaches out with the hand Tony is holding onto and brushes his thumb against Tony's jaw for a long moment, his expression infinitely fond. "It's a nice feeling to get used to again, being wanted in this way by someone."

"It's a feeling that's going to stick around."

"You charmer," Steve says and slides off the bed. He gathers the clothes and shoes they had carelessly dropped on the floor the night before, the planes of his body wearing the sunlight streaming in through the window like he was always meant to be draped in it. Tony can only treasure the view, helplessly shrugging when Steve arches a knowing eyebrow at him.

Once Steve disappears into the bathroom, Tony lies back down and closes his eyes, wanting to languish in the laziness, the contentment, he feels. Some sort of craziness has him willingly utter the words, "I'll make breakfast."

"Blueberry pancakes?" Steve replies over running water.

"What else?"

"Don't burn the kitchen down."

"What if the kitchen burns me down? What would you do then?"

"JARVIS can deploy DUM-E and DUM-E can handle it."

"In what universe is that even close to reassuring? The answer is none, Steve. _None_." The sounds of Steve moving around are soft and distant until they stop completely and Tony senses Steve standing nearby. "You're staring at me, aren't you."

Steve runs his hand down Tony's side, just a gentle glide but even that fills Tony with want. "It's hard to leave when you're lying there like that."

Tony opens his eyes just as Steve leans down. "Not hard enough apparently. You're still leaving."

The brush of Steve's lips is a cool touch against Tony's forehead, his breath minty when he speaks. "I won't be long. Bring breakfast up here, to the living room, and wait for me." He pockets his phone and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him as if Tony is still sleeping.

"JARVIS?" Tony says a few minutes into the silence.

"Yes?"

"I'm trying to decide if I mind waking up like this every morning."

"And what conclusion are you leaning towards?"

"If I said I don't, can we blame it on a temporary lapse into insanity induced by waking up too damn early?"

"Just as your offer to cook breakfast was a momentary lapse into insanity, too, sir?"

"...Yeah, alright, that one's definitely a lapse." Tony turns towards Steve's side of the bed, imagines waking up every morning and reaching for Steve first thing, a natural action that would begin even as he was still half dreaming. It's not a bad thought. It's not a bad thought at all. 

The workshop doesn't call to him as it usually does. He only thinks of Steve's instruction as he takes a hurried shower, inhales enough coffee that it's only just _marginally_ unhealthy, and makes enough pancakes to feed a small army and Thor. Half of it goes back with him to – well. It's _their_ suite, now, isn't it.

"Photographs of Captain Rogers from this morning's run are appearing rapidly on the internet," JARVIS informs him and Tony, sitting down on the floor now with his legs and a pillow tucked beneath him, is promptly surrounded by floating screens. The only clear photographs of Steve are the ones where he has stopped running for one reason or another, the rest having caught him as a half blur.

"You'd think they'd've gotten used to a sweaty Captain America running around by now."

"Have you gotten used to it?"

"What did you eat for breakfast, JARVIS? You're feeling especially witty today."

JARVIS' only answer is to direct Tony's attention to another set of photographs and it's more than fairly effective as a distraction.

When he returns, flushed from the sun, Steve takes one look at the screens around Tony and simply walks on.

"You can't blame me," Tony shouts out after him.

"I really can," Steve replies. By the time he steps back into the room, drying his hair with a towel, the screens are gone. "I'll clear out space for you today, so you can start moving in more of your stuff."

"You're going to need another wardrobe."

Steve drops down onto the couch, leaving the towel on the arm rest, his hair dark gold and in wild disarray. Tony loops his arm around Steve's calf, leaning against his leg. "Good thing you gave us all big rooms. Any bad habits I should know about that I already don't?"

"Bad habits are for other people to have," Tony says haughtily. "I'm offended that you think I have any in the first place."

"I guess I shouldn't mention anything about you snoring, then," Steve says, pretending to overlook Tony's look of outrage and liberally drizzling syrup over the pancakes. "Why are you on the floor?"

"I've decided that I don't mind," Tony says, having grown comfortable enough with the idea. "I wouldn't do it in front of others, but it's fine if it's just us." Any remaining doubt is cleared away by the brightness of the smile he receives. Steve feeds him pancakes in pieces, his fingers left sticky from the syrup, and Tony licks them clean afterwards, feeling more settled here, now, at Steve's feet than he has all week. "You never said what you wanted to do today."

"I don't have anything planned, really. But when I was coming back, I was thinking we should carry on with last night's conversation. We didn't finish talking before we got...distracted."

"Take my word for it," Tony says, "sex with the Bond is so much better than sex without. I felt so much more with it. When you were pleased with me, I _felt_ that."

"And when you were enjoying yourself, I felt that." A distance that can only be from returning to that moment again fixes itself to Steve's eyes. "There's nothing like it."

"There was a moment it let me see myself, but through your eyes and it was—" Tony swallows, recalling the flush that had stained his skin and the desperation that had made his throat tight, "—hot."

"It really was," Steve murmurs. "I've already told you how good you looked."

"I have a feeling we're going to get distracted again. There are a few things that I should tell you before that happens." Steve looks at him expectantly and Tony shifts on the pillow, picking his words. "About being tied up, it's something I really want, but only if I'm aware of it happening. If I wake up and find myself tied down, then the chances of me freaking out on you are pretty high. If you told me about it the night before and woke me up very slowly, it'd be better, but really, I'd just put off using any sort of restraints until I'm fully awake."

"That's fine with me," Steve says. "I'll make sure to be careful around the arc reactor, too."

"You asked about why I didn't like being blindfolded," Tony says. "All I told you is that it's about knowing where I am. It's just that when I was being held captive in Afghanistan, the caves were like a maze."

It doesn't take long for Steve to understand. His hand moves to the back of Tony's neck and stays there as a comforting weight. "They kept you blindfolded so that you wouldn't know the way out and now it reminds you of being there."

Tony nods. "I tried being blindfolded again for Obie even though I knew it wasn't a good idea. I didn't even last thirty seconds before I had to use my safeword."

"Did he stop?" Steve asks quietly. "Did he listen?"

"It was during his must-be-nice-to-Tony-or-he'll-figure-me-out phase, so, yeah, he listened."

"You said you'd be willing to consider trying it again. If it's so unpleasant for you, why isn't it something you don't want to do at all?"

"Because before Afghanistan, I preferred it," Tony says. "It was so much easier to get my head clear and focus only on my Dom's voice when I was blindfolded. The idea of maybe having that again is a nice one, even if I don't manage it."

"I can understand that," Steve says. He looks at Tony curiously and asks, "what about subspace, Tony?  Do you find it hard to go down?"

The question surprises Tony somewhat, though he isn't sure why. "It doesn't happen fast or very deep anymore, not like it used to when I was with Obie for the first few years, but it's not difficult, either. You can get me there. I know you can."

"I hope so."

"Do you know what it feels like?"

"Bucky tried his hand at explaining it a few times, said that he felt like he was far away somewhere and nothing else mattered, but his Dom."

"Yeah, that's, that's not a bad way to explain it, actually. I had no idea Bucky was a sub."

"He was one of the feistiest subs I've ever met," Steve tells him with a grin heavy with nostalgia. "He had a lot of partners, but not all of them stuck around afterwards and I wasn't gonna abandon him when he needed taking care of."

"Rhodey or Pepper did that for me, too, when Obie couldn't." With a grimace and a shrug that isn't as nonchalant as he wants it to be, Tony adds, "or didn't want to. I don't really know anymore with him."

"I'll want to do that for you, I can promise you that."

Tony rests his chin on Steve's knee and has to look up through his eyelashes at Steve. It's an inadvertent consequence, the coyness of it not escaping either of them, and Tony doesn't mind it at all as he says, "you mentioned a new rule last night. I don't know if you were just saying it in the moment or if you meant it, but I liked the sound of it."

"What – oh." Steve's thumb strokes over that patch of skin behind Tony's ear that always pulls out a hitched breath. "I _was_ saying it in the moment, but," he's still staring at Tony, reaching into Tony with a dark gaze, and Tony doesn't dare look away, "you want me to be able to do whatever I want with you whenever I feel like it. Those were your words."

"Yeah."

"Then, we should put that rule into effect immediately."

"Yes," Tony says, sitting up straight.

"Go on," Steve says, taking his hand away from Tony's nape. "Take your clothes off. Fold them this time and put them out of our way."

Tony stands and strips himself, folds his clothes as neatly as he can and leaves them behind him on the floor. Exposed again, but the energy thrumming through him is nothing like anxiety and everything like eagerness. Exposed, but safe, safe, safe.

"Come here, Anthony," Steve orders, sitting back against the couch.

"'Anthony' means we're going to get distracted now, doesn't it?" Tony says, climbing onto Steve's lap, sinking against the softness of Steve's clothes. In that contrast, too, that quiet reminder of who is in control, there is something to be enjoyed.

"That's right," Steve says. His hands travel up Tony's back, fingers spread to chart the smoothness and the dips. "'Anthony' means we're going to get distracted now."

+

It's yet another one of their see-you-laters, this time situated on the roof of Stark Tower. Rhodey is encased in the familiar embrace of War Machine, Tony incongruous next to him in only a tank top and loose jeans, shades covering his eyes. The dog tags around his neck mirror the gleam of Rhodey's suit.

"This has been nice, Tony," Rhodey says. "It's been nice to see you again, see you smiling more. I knew it'd be a good look on you."

"Everything's a good look on me," Tony says.

"Rio de Janeiro, 1989, would not agree with you."

"I thought we agreed to not mention that ever again. Or ever mention the eighties. Ever." Rhodey rolls his eyes and Tony grins, lifting his arms up. "One manly hug for the road?"

"If it's a manly hug, sure," Rhodey says. The suit is faintly warm against Tony's skin from exposure to the sun. He pulls away, but only enough for Rhodey to hold him at arms length and scrutinise his face. "Yeah, you'll be fine," Rhodey says eventually.

Tony doesn't ask what he means, stepping back as the thrusters flare bright and Rhodey shoots upwards to hover in mid-air. "Not gonna tell me what you said to Steve back inside?"

"Nah, the secrecy will drive you insane and I'll enjoy it."

"The day you turn supervillian, Rhodey, I won't be surprised."

"Keep me posted, don't skip on the phone calls, eat your vegetables."

"I'll be a good boy," Tony promises wryly.

War Machine's faceplate closes upon Rhodey's smile and one metal hand salutes Tony before Rhodey takes off, a silver gleam that arcs through the air like a ricocheting bullet. Though Rhodey is inevitably absorbed into the New York skyline, Tony stands there in the sunlight for a while, tracing Rhodey's path across the clear, blue expanse. The feeling of missing him is, as always, quick to set in and even welcomed.

He eventually walks back into the coolness of the Tower, pulling off the sunglasses and returning to the workshop. In the past week, he had almost forgotten, but as Wednesday and the trip to Japan approached, Tony couldn't avoid the conversation with Billups and the plan that he had set into motion then. It's hardly his best plan, one made on a whim, one that might yield no results (but he hadn't imagined Billups' curiosity or the lack of innocence to it), and it'll inevitably get him punished when Steve finds out. Tony adamantly ignores the guilt that accompanies his secrecy. The Bond despises it and sometimes Tony finds that he has unconsciously approached Steve, earning himself odd looks when he covers it up with flimsy excuses.

It's while he is in the middle of dissecting his watch that Natasha arrives. She looks around as she always does, cataloguing, Tony thinks, the differences between the workshop now and the last time she had come down. Today, in a white shirt and a pencil skirt, elegant and immaculate, she looks as if she belongs in an office, at the head of a corporation, even the steady clicks of her heels a reminder of her competency. Tony wonders if she has been playing Natalie Rushman again.

"They still haven't faded?" Natasha asks as she comes closer, eyeing his neck with open amusement.

"They're half gone," Tony mutters and doesn't think about the sting of Steve's teeth, how much he wants to feel it again. "Your make-up is being used to its maximum potential."

"It warms me to hear that. Is that a new suit you've got over there?"

"Natasha, Mark IX. Mark IX, Natasha."

"How many more suits are you planning to make? You're going to have an army at this rate."

"There's always room for improvement," Tony says. "And I just can't leave things well alone when they can be improved."

"Says a lot about you."

Tony laughs at the truth of it. "Just like your hyper-vigilance says a lot about you. I get the feeling talking about our obsessive habits isn't why you came here, though."

Natasha smiles like he has made a particularly funny joke and holds up the bracelets that frequently adorn her wrists. "They're not working as effectively anymore, I was hoping you could look at them and see what's wrong."

"Gimme," Tony says, gesturing briskly. Natasha drops the Widow's Bite onto his palm and glances down at what has become of his watch.

"Incoming call from Ms. Potts, sir," JARVIS announces.

"Let it through. Miss me already, Pep? It hasn't even been a full twenty four hours. I think you might be developing a bit of a crush on me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Pepper says. "I only came around last night just to say goodbye to Rhodey."

"She loves me, really, she does," Tony says to Natasha. "Natasha's here, by the way. She's got something of a crush on me, too, only instead of love letters, I just get weapons she wants me to fix."

"It's how we did it in Russia," Natasha says dryly. "Hi, Pepper."

"Hi, Natasha, I'm glad you're there. I forgot to mention last night that a friend of mine's passed on two tickets for the ballet next Wednesday night. It's not something that Happy would ever be interested in, but would you like to go together?"

"Wait a minute," Tony interjects, "you called _me_ , but now you're gonna talk to Natasha instead? I'm not worthy of your attention anymore?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Tony. I didn't realise you were a fan of the ballet."

Tony makes an incomprehensible noise of dislike and follows it up with a more coherent, "please go back to ignoring me."

They lose his attention rapidly and Tony transfers it to the Widow's Bite in his hand, carefully working open the hinges until each bracelet splits open. He's examining its cartridges when Pepper asks, "Tony, are you ready for Japan tomorrow?"

"I'm always ready for Japan."

"Try not to test Kenjiro Fujikawa's patience. You know he's not fond of you, even if his daughter is."

Tony smiles to himself and maybe it's a little wistful. Like him, Rumiko had never cared for orientation, either, even if her father did, too carefree to be tied down by words, categories, and Tony had been drawn to her in a way that only very few people have managed to bring out in him. "Just for her, I'll make the effort to be punctual."

"Also make the effort not to flirt outrageously with her in front of Kenjiro," Pepper says.

"All flirting will be kept to a minimum," Tony says. "I've only got eyes for one person now, in case you've forgotten. You might've seen him around, he's this big, blond tower – oh, no, wait, we have two of them."

"I think I know who you're talking about," Pepper says, laughing softly. "Well, that concludes my obligatory 'Tony, behave' statement, so I'll be getting back to my actual work."

"Here I thought promoting you would put an end to all obligatory statements."

"Some things are just ingrained in me now. Have a safe trip, Tony, and I'll see you soon, Natasha. Let me know if anything changes."

"Will do," Natasha says and Pepper hangs up.

Tony taps the Widow's Bite with a pointed look. "You should've shown me this before, I could've upgraded the power source ages ago. These batteries SHIELD's given you are crap, all offence intended."

"Can you upgrade it now?"

"'Can you upgrade it now', she asks. It'd be cruel of me not to. You're gonna go back to pushing people around for lunch money in no time."

"Good. You know how much I love doing that."

"Just don't let Cap hear you say that. He'll feel obligated to enforce justice."

Natasha concedes to that point with a nod and looks at his watch again. "Something wrong with your watch?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, just putting a tracker into it."

"Like the one you put in Bruce's watch? Are you expecting something to happen to you?"

"Just a useful thing to have, don't you think?" he says as casually as he can. "Believe it or not, I actually do have a sense of self-preservation, vague as it may be."

Natasha hums noncommittally and thankfully makes no mention of the circumstances surrounding her arrival into his life. "You talked to Billups," she says and Tony almost drops the small screwdriver in his hand. "Our agents saw you. What did you talk about?"

"How he was enjoying his new job."

"That's all?"

"We might've made a joke about Fury as well, but you won't rat us out, will you?"

"Depends on the joke."

"Does Steve know that I talked to Billups?"

"I haven't told him and if it's an irrelevant conversation, I don't need to." Tony says nothing, twirling the screwdriver around with the hope that it doesn't telegraph anything but indifference.  Natasha takes it as an indication to leave and walks towards the door. "I'll let you get on with it, then. Thanks for helping me out."

"'s what I'm here for," Tony mumbles, watching her leave from the corner of his eyes. The silence in the workshop abruptly grows uncomfortable, even accusatory. "As much as I love the sound of my own voice, where's my music, JARVIS?"

Daft Punk starts up and keeps Tony company through first adjusting the Widow's Bite and then planting the tracker into his watch. It's only the need for more coffee gradually growing large enough to demand attention that ushers Tony out of the workshop with his empty mug. He passes by low voices on the way to the kitchen and returns to them again after his mug is filled, pausing by the living room to listen in.

"You drew comics?" Clint says incredulously. "Seriously?"

"Sure I did," Steve replies. "They weren't anything special, but they made me a few bucks."

"Show me how you drew them," Clint demands and Steve laughs at his insistence, standing up.

"Alright, let me go get my things. Tony, hey, what – are you okay? You seem a little out of it."

Tony almost tells him. He suppresses that compulsion, fingers tightening around the mug in his hand, and makes himself say, "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Have you been working on the suit again?"

"No, not today."

"Steve, comics, drawing," Clint interrupts. "You can be concerned about Tony later."

Steve rolls his eyes. He places a hand on Tony's arm. "Why don't you stick around for a bit before you head back down?"

"Stick around and watch you teach Clint how to draw comics? Sounds riveting."

"Riveting is my middle name, Stark. Riveting is me, I am riveting."

"Stay," Steve says, more of an order this time, and Tony nods automatically.

He takes a seat on the sofa adjacent to Clint, drinks his coffee, makes the expected jokes as he watches Steve and Clint steadily work out the first page of what's becoming their joint comic. Tony keeps it up through dinner and pretends not to notice the fleeting moments when Steve suddenly frowns at nothing, troubled by something internal.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Steve asks again, later, when they're in the bedroom. He's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed with Tony's tablet in hand, a doodle coming together under quick motions.

Tony spits out toothpaste into the sink and turns the water on, asking in return, "are you sure _you're_ okay?"

"I just have a bad feeling."

"About what?"

"I don't really know, actually." Steve hands over the tablet when Tony returns and Tony looks down at the rough drawing of Iron Man in flight, heading towards an unknown destination. "You'll be gone by the time I get back from my run, won't you?"

"Yeah," Tony says, setting the tablet aside. Steve pulls him down onto the bed; Tony instinctively tilts his head to the right angle for their mouths to slot together in another one of those deep kisses that make him forget there ever was anything beyond the heat of Steve's mouth. He finds himself ready to whisper words against Steve's lips, to tell him that he's making himself bait after all, but Tony is selfish, too, and he doesn't want to see Steve's face darken with anger after having seen it darken with desire. "I'll bring you back a souvenir," he says instead, after they've moved beneath the covers and Steve's arms are bracketing his body.

"I'm starting to imagine the kinds of things you'd bring back and don't know if I should be worried now."

"You'd probably be right to be worried."

Tony closes his eyes, keeps them closed for a long time, though sleep doesn't come to him as easily as it does to Steve. He counts each of Steve's even breaths in lieu of sheep and eventually that gives way to sleep that isn't entirely restful.

He wakes, groggy, when Steve leaves the bed and JARVIS doesn't let him fall back asleep. The grogginess follows him throughout JARVIS' weather announcements and getting dressed until it's finally chased away by coffee.

The armour, retracted and contained in the shape of a briefcase, hangs at his side by the time he leaves the Tower, snug in a tailored suit. Outside, a sleek, black car is waiting for him, an unfamiliar driver beside it. "You're not Davis," Tony says, ignoring the door being opened in front of him.

"No, sir, I'm Ben Townsend. Davis has fallen sick, so I'll be driving you today."

"That so?" Tony says. Townsend, dark-haired and dark-eyed and sharing Steve's height, nods, smiling down at him politely. Tony enters the car, placing the suit onto the seat next to him. Townsend slips into the front and the car smoothly pulls away from the curb a moment later, moving deeper down the road. "So. Davis is sick. It's nothing serious, right?"

"He should be back on his feet in a few days," Townsend says. "I'm surprised you're not flying to Japan as Iron Man, Mr. Stark. I would've thought that'd be faster."

"I'm practicing humility," Tony replies.

Fifteen minutes in – he spares a glance at his watch – Tony looks out of the window and watches with more interest as the wrong buildings emerge on either side of the car. He feels no surprise, only a sense of anticipation and satisfaction at being proven right. "This isn't the way to the airfield."

"No," Townsend says simply. "It isn't."

"Where are you taking me?"

"You'll know once we get there."

"I met a buddy of yours the other day," Tony says. He makes his hand inch closer to the armour, as if he plans to use it. "Billups. He _is_ a friend of yours, isn't he?"

"Friend isn't the word for it. I'd suggest that your hand stays right where it is, Mr. Stark. We've got eyes on you."

"You wouldn't kill me."

"We wouldn't shoot to kill."

Then, Tony hears a too loud sound erupt some distance behind him, a sound that had trailed after him throughout all his years as a weapons manufacturer, and he turns his head, knowing that he'll see bright arcs of flame and smoke in the air. The noise echoes three more times, mixed with it the raucous screams of panicked people, car horns blaring, wheels screeching. Barely a second later, Tony's phone vibrates in his pocket. "Let me guess," he says slowly, watching the fire and smoke continue to twine together, "I can't take phone calls, either?"

"You're getting the hang of it," Townsend says. Tony faces the front again just in time to see the hand that reaches backwards and slams something against his neck. A sharp sting follows; his vision shudders and blurs. In the brief moment he has before unconsciousness, Tony is vaguely reminded of when he had sat paralysed in his penthouse, staring up at Obie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is Tony up to. Who knows. In other news, I spent too much time on 8tracks recently and ended up making a [playlist](https://8tracks.com/quixotesque/kind-and-courteous-is-a-life-i-ve-heard).


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! This chapter has been the bane of my life for the past few weeks, so I'm immensely glad to have it finally finished. My endless gratitude to Kendii for all her help, because this chapter would've been worse without it. Enjoy!

Tony comes to with a pained groan.

There's an instance of blinding light and he squeezes his eyes shut. The memories return to him quickly – Townsend, the explosions, and then unconsciousness – and he touches his neck where he had felt that sting, finding a small raised mark there. His other arm is dangling, grabbing at nothing. A table, he thinks at first, amending it to a bench when he sits up. Tony glances down at himself first (his jacket is gone, his tie, his watch) and then looks around the small cell he's been tucked into. There's nothing else, just the bench and walls and in place of solid bars are ethereal ones, the air shimmering with a force field of some kind.

It takes him a moment to spot her, but she doesn't look back at Tony from where she's lying on the bench in the cell opposite, staring at the ceiling. She's thin, her clothes grimy, ripped in places from what he can see and stained with bursts of red like ink spilt over.

Tony speaks first because he can tell that she won't. "Who are you?"

Her answer doesn't come immediately. He thinks she won't reply at all until she says, "Alvarez," in a weary voice.

"Tony," he replies. "Tony Stark."

"I know who you are," she says and it sounds like she would laugh if she could bring herself to. "Most people do."

"True. So. Where exactly are we?"

"I don't know," Alvarez says. "But I'm guessing Colorado from what I hear the guards talk about."

"Still in the same country. That's something."

"That only means something if you manage to get out of here."

"Which I will. Call it a speciality of mine," Tony says. "What's your story, anyway? Why are you here?"

"I refused to co-operate with them anymore, so I'm spending my days down here until they decide to finally kill me. Or use me as a guinea pig. Same thing, really."

Tony stares at her, but it doesn't earn him a glance in return much less break her out of her apathy. "What did you do before for them refused to co-operate?"

It takes even longer for her to respond this time. "I worked for Omnitech, robotics department, but I had no idea that it was a front organization for AIM until..." Beneath dull resignation, there's shame in her voice and it makes her words quieter. Alvarez moves finally, but only to shift one arm from where it sits on her stomach to cover her eyes. "There was a bunch of us that they grabbed. They brought us here, threatened us, forced us to work for them, and we did. Those androids you fought a while back? I helped create those."

"Why'd you stop?"

"I was scared," Alvarez says. "They were going to kill us if we didn't help them and I was scared. And then I realised, it doesn't matter if I'm scared, I'd rather let them kill me than help them kill others."

Tony understands how that goes. "How long have you been here? How long have  _I_  been here?"

"In this cell? Two months, I think, maybe more. And as for you, they dropped you off maybe half an hour ago."

Tony leans forwards, inching as close to the force field as he can without hitting it, and looks. There are several more cells on either side of the room, but the lack of movement in any of them leads him to a grim realisation. "The others have been killed, haven't they."

Alvarez takes her arm away, turns her head to the side and shoots him a flat look. Her face is gaunt and tired, the discolouration sitting on her cheekbone suggesting a fading bruise. "What do you think?" Now that she's looking at him, Alvarez doesn't shift her glance, carrying out a scrutiny he feels as acutely as he would've done if she had done it from up close. "I heard them talking about getting you here ages ago, but I didn't think they'd actually manage it."

"I may have helped them out a little there."

Alvarez pauses. "You  _let_  them kidnap you? Are you only intelligent when it comes to science?"

"Hey, I know what I'm doing," he says, even though his watch is gone, destroyed most likely, the tracker along with it. 

"You being here means the rest of your team is making their way here, too, right?"

"Oh, you can bank on that one," Tony mutters. In the back of his throat, he can taste a tangle of fear and anger and it isn't his own. He doesn't get to concentrate on it long, distracted by the quiet hiss of the door as it opens. 

Tony hears the voice before he sees the man and it asks, "we've been getting to know each other, have we?"

"Very thoughtful of you to provide me with company today, Brannex," Alvarez replies.

Brannex makes a low sound of amusement, stepping in front of Tony's cell and peering at him with no little curiosity, as if inspecting a caged specimen. Tony stands up, lifts his chin slightly in defiance. Brannex is taller, leaner, with pale hair, pale eyes, pale skin, as if he is a brother to the androids he once sent out. "Hello, Mr. Stark. It's nice to finally have you here."

Tony drags out a smirk like a surgeon pulling out his best scalpel and it settles cool and arrogant on his face. He looks at Brannex's almost amiable smile and says, "can't say I'm as happy as you about it."

"No, I'm sure you're not," Brannex replies mildly. Tony has been under several kinds of gazes in his life, but Brannex's is one of the more disconcerting ones. His eyes strip Tony of something, take it away and stash it in his grey irises. "Allesandro Brannex. I'm in charge of this facility and will be your host for the duration of your stay here."

"It sounds to me like you've been expecting me."

"We weren't intending on approaching you yet, but you gave us such a good opportunity that I thought it'd be foolish not to take it. I should thank you for that."

"No need, I just like helping people," Tony says flippantly. "What's the evil plan? Don't tell me it's world domination, 'cause that one's getting pretty old."

"Always with the jokes," Brannex says.

"Fine, I'll get serious," Tony says. "What do you want from me? The suit? Everyone's interested in the suit. I don't blame you, it's a work of art, but it's  _mine_."

"Your armour is impressive," Brannex says, but his covetous eyes drop to Tony's chest and remain there. If by sight alone he could have separated the arc reactor from Tony, Tony would have been dead already. "As is the technology that keeps you alive."

It takes monumental effort for Tony to smother the urge to hide the arc reactor. "The only way you can look at it is if you take it out of my chest. You take it out of my chest, I die. That's not a good outcome for either of us."

"You're not the only genius in the world."

"No, but I  _am_  the only person in the world who can tell you anything about arc reactor technology." Tony flashes a wide grin, throws all the smugness he can into it. "I'm something of a rare species. Tell me, how many attempts have you made at accessing my suit?"

Brannex regards him icily. "Give us the code, Mr. Stark."

"Do you honestly think I'm going to hand it over just like that? Come on, bargain with me, let's make this more fun."

"Give us the code," Brannex says again. "This doesn't need to get messy or violent."

"I don't mind if it gets messy or violent. I can take a few hits."

"You misunderstand me.  _You_  won't be taking any of the hits, but Alvarez here, she'll take them for you. I'm sure she won't mind as she's not useful for much else anymore."

Alvarez scoffs and then laughs. "Sure, why not. Not like I really get a choice."

"They're on their way here, you know," Tony says. "The rest of my team. It's only a matter of time. Doesn't matter how secret this super secret lair is, they'll find you."

Brannex waves a hand, dismissive. "Because of your tracker? No, we detected and destroyed that when you were brought in along with your phone. They've got more immediate concerns than you. I know you saw those explosions."

"Nice decoy," Tony says. "But all you've done is slow them down a little."

"And now you're trying to slow me down by stalling. I can see right through you. It won't—"

Brannex is interrupted by rapid pounding on the door, a frantic voice crying out, "sir, there's a problem! It's Prufrock, sir!"

The snarl half forming on Brannex's face smoothes itself out almost immediately, lapsing into an eerie blankness. "We'll speak again later, Stark," he says in a clipped tone and then strides out of the room. Alvarez finally sits up, swinging her legs to the floor, and watches Brannex go with more interest than Tony has seen on her so far.

"Do you have any idea what that was about?" he asks when she does nothing else.

Alvarez glances at him quickly like she had forgotten his presence. "Not exactly. Prufrock, he's another one of the scientists here. He was creating something, a virus. I don't know how far he's gotten with it, but..."

"But?"

"To put it simply, even Brannex has a hard time keeping Prufrock controlled."

"You're telling me that there's someone crazier than the head crazy scientist. Great. That's just great." Tony sighs and examines the air in front of him, his hand hovering close.

"Don't," Alvarez warns. "The force field will electrocute you."

"There's got to be a way out of here, some sort of...something. We need to get this deactivated."

"I've tried to escape twice so far. The only way I got around the force field is by moving when the guards took me out of the cell."

Tony considers it. "Call for help," he says briskly, placing his hand over his chest, the arc reactor humming soothingly beneath his palm.

"What?"

Tony looks at her meaningfully, gestures to his chest once before he drops down onto the floor. " _Call for help_ ," he says again and Alvarez's eyes widen, before she nods understandingly. Tony clutches at his chest and makes his breathing stutter in a feigned irregular rhythm.

"Hey! Hey, is someone out there?" Alvarez shouts, her voice shaking in what Tony would have believed is authentic panic. "You need to get in here, there's something wrong with Stark! He can't breathe! Hey!"

There's no response and Alvarez shouts louder until the door finally opens again.

"What the hell are you shouting about, Alvarez? You – shit, Ward, look at this guy."

"He just collapsed suddenly," Alvarez says hurriedly. "I don't think he can breathe. What did you  _do_  to him when you brought him in?"

"We didn't do anything," the other guard, Ward, argues. "Just put him down on the bench like we were s'posed to."

"You need to get him to a doctor."

Tony turns onto his side, wheezing, and squints up at the two guards. "I can't – I  _can't_ ," he tries to say, tapping the arc reactor weakly. "Power, the power is—" He rolls his eyes into the back of his head and closes them as he collapses into stillness.

"He's dead if you don't get that thing fixed," he hears Alvarez say. "And if he dies, Brannex is going to kill you guys."

"Nobody's dying," the first guard snaps. A brief sequence of beeps follows. "This is  _just_  what we need right now on top of – come on, grab him, let's get him checked out."

Tony waits until he feels the guard bend down, grasp Tony's shoulder in one hand, and then moves quickly, smashing his elbow against the guard's nose. The guard falls over to the side from the unexpected blow and Tony rushes to his feet, slamming his fist into Ward's face while he still has the element of surprise. Ward sprawls back onto the floor, unconscious. Tony quickly grabs his gun, whirls around, brings it down against the head of the first guard, knocking him out.

"Not bad," Alvarez comments.

"I try," Tony says, snatching the semi-automatic from the guard.

"I saw the code," Alvarez says, nodding at the keypad. "Two-one-six-zero-zero and then swipe the top bar, but you're going to need to their fingerprint."

Ward is the closest to Alvarez, so Tony drags him up, pressing Ward's thumb to the keypad. "Two-one-six-zero-zero and then swipe the top bar." The force field deactivates and Alvarez shuffles out with a deep breath, an incipient smile. Tony hands over the semi-automatic.

"Here's hoping escape attempt number three goes well," Alvarez says, gripping the gun tight enough to turn her knuckles pale.

"You know what they say – third time's the charm. Now, where would they keep my armour?"

"This place has five levels, first two are offices, the next two are sublevels with labs and testing zones and the last one, the level we're on, is for prisoners. Your armour is most likely in one of the labs. We can't access the elevators, but there's a staircase just round the corner at the end of this hallway leading up."

The corridor outside is long and empty and they move down it quietly, passing by doors sealed shut. Tony can't help muttering, "I'm insulted that Brannex thinks only two guards suffice for Iron Man."

"The only thing that Brannex has more than intelligence is arrogance."

"You know, someone said the same thing about me once. Twice. Maybe many—" he's cut off abruptly by the blaring of an alarm, the corridor awash in red light. " _Christ_ , that is loud."

"I've got a good feeling about what this means," Alvarez says, staring up at the ceiling like she had done back in her cell. "It means your friends are here."

"Let's see if you're right."

They reach the corner, Tony walking around first and then hastily retreating, throwing his arm back around Alvarez to keep her away from the series of gunshots fired at them. When it stops, they lean out and fire back, Tony hitting one guard across the knees and Alvarez catching another in the shoulder, before pulling back behind the wall. The third guard releases three successive shots and Tony waits a heartbeat, leans back out, and aims; the guard goes down with loud grunt of pain, but not before a fourth one appears.

" _No_ ," Alvarez shouts, pushing Tony's hand as he fires again, and his spray of bullets grazes the floor instead. "No, he's a friendly! He's on our side."

The guard nears, holding his hands up, though his eyes nervously dart over his shoulder and back towards the staircase. His face is vaguely familiar and Tony rummages rapidly through his memories, eventually recalling Natasha gesturing to the dour features of Agent Allen on the screen in SHIELD's briefing room. "Look," Allen says, "there's not enough time for me to explain, not right now, but I'm here to help you, I swear."

"Stark," Alvarez says and it sounds like a plea. "You can trust him."

Tony doesn't lower his gun. There's a whirlwind of emotions running rampant inside of him, but it's still anger – Steve's anger – that howls the strongest, not the messy kind that spills everywhere, but a cold, contained rage like fire that's been frozen. He pushes through it and demands, "tell me what's going on."

"I tipped off the rest of your team that you're here and they've finally arrived. Brannex has let the androids out to deal with them while everyone else evacuates."

"We heard something about Prufrock causing problems," Alvarez says.

Allen shrugs. "Last I saw, he was arguing with Brannex. He wanted to test out his virus and Brannex wouldn't let him."

"My armour," Tony says. "Where is it?"

"Turn left at the top of the stairs, run down the hallway, and then turn left again into another hallway, it's the sixth door on the right." To Alvarez, Allen murmurs, "I told you I would come back for you."

Running towards the stairs, Tony doesn't hear Alvarez's reply, her voice overwhelmed not only by the unceasing alarm, but the sudden unearthly roar that reaches them from somewhere above. "That does  _not_  sound like an android."

Grimly, Alvarez says, "why do I get the feeling that Brannex didn't win his argument with Prufrock?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Tony says.

On the floor above, chaos is unfolding. All the doors are open, the labs in the process of being hurriedly abandoned by personnel, and in the commotion, they are momentarily overlooked.

"I think I might be able to deactivate the androids," Alvarez says. "I need to get to ground level to do that, though."

"Okay, go. Allen, cover her. I'll be fine."

"Remember," Allen says. "Left, forwards, left again, sixth door on the right. And be careful."

"When am I not?" Tony says, more to himself, turning left and heading down the corridor. He's only made it halfway when androids appear at the far end and spot him almost immediately, forcing him duck into the nearest lab to avoid the laser beams and gunfire released his way. Tony returns fire and hides at turns, hindered by the few scientists still running in between. His gun lacks the significant power of his repulsors and he runs out of ammo by the time he's shot down the two androids.

Throwing the gun away, he darts back out into a now cleared corridor, running over to where it splits in two different directions. Left again, Allen had said, so Tony takes the second left and has to force himself to a sudden stop only an inch away from Townsend and Billups. Townsend doesn't hesitate, makes a grab for him, but Tony manages to twist himself away and then rams his shoulder into Billups. Billups grunts and stumbles. Tony resumes running.

A slew of androids begin appearing at the end of the corridor, ruthlessness running from their dispassionate eyes down to the guns fanning out from their arms like vicious wings. He can't take them all on, not unarmed, not by himself, not with Townsend and Billups right behind him, and the armour is so close, just two doors down, all Tony has to do is duck and sprint—

A kick sweeps Tony's feet from under him, a hand hauls him around and onto his back. Tony throws a wild swing but it's blocked easily; Townsend drops down onto him, bulky enough to keep Tony pinned, and grabs Tony's arms, forcing them against the ground. Tony tries to kick and unsettle the heavy weight, but Townsend merely grips harder and mutters, "Brannex would appreciate it if he could have the arc reactor, Mr. Stark."

"I don't care what –  _fuck_ , no, get off me, you sonuvabitch,  _get off me_ ," Tony hisses, as Billups rips the top half of Tony's shirt open, exposing the arc reactor. Panic hits Tony with all the impact of a freight train. It stuns him, turns his blood to ice, and he remembers pain in his chest, unyielding weight in his limbs,  _you're such a good, good boy for dying, Tony_. Billups smiles without feeling, the cool tips of his fingers circling the blue gleam, and Tony yells, makes himself thrash as best as he can, his dog tags rattling. 

Around them, the alarm is still wailing. The din of laser beams is still constant and that roar, that terrible roar originating from an inhuman throat, still travels down from above. In that cacophony of sounds, Tony doesn't hear how vibranium cuts through the air whip-fast, but he feels the steady undercurrent of anger streaming in from Steve suddenly blaze into something more ferocious and he knows instantly that his Bonded is here.

One moment Townsend is above Tony, the next he is gone with the sickening crack of bone. Billups freezes with his hand still around the arc reactor; barely a second later, Steve hauls him off the ground, punches him. Billups staggers and Steve slams him up against the wall, pressing his gloved hand tight against Billups' throat and strangling the shout beginning there. The concrete wall cracks, zigzags shooting out. Billups is choking, legs kicking in the air, sometimes striking Steve, who doesn't seem to feel it. Tony thinks suddenly of paper. He thinks of how flesh and bone can be crushed like paper under Steve's hands, of how Steve treats the world like it is made of delicate china except when he doesn't. 

There's a terrible part of Tony that wants to let Steve carry on, that would have done the same if Steve had been the one in danger. He squashes it ruthlessly and scrambles to his feet, grabbing Steve's shoulder. "Steve, let him go. He's out, Steve, he's  _done_." 

Billups is no longer conscious, limp as a doll in Steve's clutch, and Steve drops him onto the ground unceremoniously, his attention snapping immediately to Tony. He doesn't blink, his face all sharp angles as he takes in the half ripped shirt, the arc reactor peeking out.

"I'm fine," Tony says, and maybe he's reassuring himself more than Steve. Nearby, Townsend is gasping in barely audible breaths and one look at his chest tells Tony that his sternum is fractured. "But I need to—"

Steve suddenly shoves Tony behind him, raising his shield to block energy blasts. "If you can get your armour, go and get it!" he yells. "I'll deal with these guys!"

Tony doesn't need to be told twice. There are metal corpses littering the hallway in front of him, the androids that he had seen now broken into disparate pieces by Steve's shield and fists, and Tony runs over them to the correct door. Sitting in one piece on the table, the armour is a glorious sight. Tony's fingers tremble only slightly as he presses the code in.

The suit assembles itself onto his body, JARVIS' voice leaping into his ear. "Welcome back, sir."

"No time to lose, J, tell me what's—" without warning, the building rocks violently, riding out the tremors from an explosion, "—happening."

Tony opens the feed from the comm and Steve is saying, "Thor, what's going on? What was that?"

"I am drawing the creature out of this building," Thor replies, "where it shall be easier to battle it."

Clint says, "I'm gonna get everyone outside to move away even further, so that they're not in the line of fire."

Tony wants clarification, but before he can ask, the alarms unexpectedly fall silent.

"The androids have just died out of nowhere," Natasha says. "I'm not sure why, but I'll take it."

"Alvarez did it," Tony mutters.

The response on the comm is immediate. "About time," Natasha says over Clint's, "get out here and help us, you expensive Coke can."

"Widow, get outside, too," Steve says. "Thor, hold on, we're coming."

"Someone, tell me about this...creature," Tony says, blasting a hole open in the wall and launching himself through it with thrusters roaring.

"Last I saw," Natasha answers, "it looked vaguely human, but it was mutating. A serum gone wrong, maybe."

"No, it's a virus. At least, that's the theory I'm going with."

There's a grunt from Thor, a howl from the creature, and then Thor says, "it possesses an unnatural ability to heal rapidly, far quicker than anything I have seen on Midgard."

"Then we need to deal it more damage faster than it can heal. Be there in a sec, big guy. I can help with that."

The creature is large, not quite the Hulk's size but inching towards it, and it is hunched, bent spine protruding out of its back, the gleam of white bone stark against the surrounding patchy, red skin. Tattered clothes – Tony thinks he sees a lab coat – cling onto its body, vibrant crimson staining the front. It lumbers slowly, leaves behind eerie, gossamer strips that Tony realises with a grimace are shed skin, and falls forwards onto hands and knees, shrieking as more bone pushes out of its body, claws extending from the ends of its fingers.

"It's still mutating," Natasha states. "We need to deal with this as quickly as we can, before it turns into something too big for us to handle."

"Or flees from us," Thor says. 

"Repulsor blasts coming right up," Tony says, his palms humming, brightening.

"No, wait—" Steve begins, but Tony has already let beams free directly onto the creature. It roars again, unfurling from its position on the ground, eyes fixing upon Tony. The wounds burned into its skin from the repulsors begin healing almost immediately and with startling speed, it moves, lunging up for Tony, claws swiping.

Tony spirals out of its reach, flies up even higher towards a setting sun. On the ground, Natasha fires her guns, Steve throws his shield, and it draws the creature's attention away onto them. 

"We'll keep its eyes down on us," Steve says as the creature snarls, baring its teeth, and Natasha finishes with, "so the rest of you are free to fire away."

"Now's a good time to unleash some lightning, Thor," Clint says.

"Yes, I think so, too," Thor replies in a low voice, raising Mjölnir high above him. The sky answers his silent call, its colour changing from the orange of lit cigarettes to the dark grey of a gathering storm. Tony thinks he feels it even while in the suit, the pressure that builds in the air, static and ozone a physical presence around him. With a loud crackle, lightning pours down, a deluge of white light, Thor a regal and terrifying figure beneath it.

"Everyone, fire now!" Steve yells and Tony raises his arms again.

In the end, it's the constant barrage from Tony's arsenal, Thor's lightning, and Clint's stock of exploding arrows that eventually forces the creature to succumb with a wounded howl. It sways, a mass of damaged tissue rather than anything with discernible features, and then collapses.

They all wait, holding their breaths, but the creature makes no other movement.

"I think," Steve says finally, "we can let SHIELD's clean-up crew take over."

"They should burn the body, get rid of every trace of that virus," Tony says, landing next to him.

Steve nods and doesn't look at him. His voice is smooth, professional, when he says, "I'll pass it on."

Tony opens his faceplate and Steve still doesn't look at him. "Steve, I—"

"We'll do another sweep through the building. You should let the medics take a look at you."

"I've just got a few bruises, nothing that needs looking at. But I want to—"

 _"Don't_ ," Steve warns. This time, his eyes do flick up to meet Tony's and they are unforgiving. "You don't want to say anything to me right now."

Tony watches him walk away, towards the agents responsible for clean up.

There's the slow crunch of gravel and Natasha takes the abandoned space by Tony's side, her arms folded across her chest. Coolly, she says, "irrelevant conversation, huh?"

"Sorry," Tony offers, but it comes out feeble. When she doesn't continue, he asks, "that's it? You're not going to say anything else?"

"I don't appreciate not being told, but I don't think I'm the one you should be worrying about."

Tony changes the subject with little tact. "I saw explosions before they knocked me out. What happened?"

"The Fantastic Four and the X-Men stepped in to deal with that while we focused on finding you."

"So you wouldn't know how many casualties. That's alright. JARVIS can tell me."

Natasha meets his eyes and there's nothing aloof about the way she pointedly tells him, "don't blame yourself, Tony."

At Clint's approach, Tony stifles his reply. "That used to be a guy," Clint says, nodding at the creature's prone form. "You wouldn't have any idea who, would you?"

Tony shakes his head. "Brannex might know, though. He's the one in charge of this place. Speaking of Brannex, tell me that the asshole didn't make it out of here."

"That's the tall, reedy guy, right? Allen mentioned him. Go and take a look yourself."

The scientists and guards who failed to escape in time have been hemmed into one space, flanked by SHIELD agents, and Tony determinedly clangs over. He scans all of the faces until he finds the right one and, without hesitation, punches Brannex. "That's for being an incredibly shitty host. Don't you know it's rude to try and steal from your guest?"

Brannex clutches at his nose, a trickle of blood running between his fingers. "Finding one base doesn't mean the end of AIM, Mr. Stark."

"Oh, it will," Tony says. "You're not going to win. I'm pretty sure if we gave everyone we caught today the right incentive, they'll spill everything they know. We're going to find every base AIM has and shut them down."

"It won't work. There's too many of us."

"Don't worry, we're persistent." After a moment's thought, Tony punches Brannex again. "And that one's for Alvarez."

He searches Alvarez out after that, finding her with the medics, Allen by her side. There's a fresh bruise at her temple and Allen's hand is being wrapped up. 

"War wounds," she tells Tony. "We're proud of them. That's more than I can say for Brannex. It was nice watching you punch him."

"Oh, it's nicer doing the actual punching, believe me," Tony says. "I recommend trying it yourself."

"You're going to leave now, aren't you?"

"Not yet, but I'm tempted to. I need a drink after all that."

"Not a bad idea." She shares a glance with Allen that somehow comes across as tired and glad at the same time. "I don't think we'll be getting any drinks, not if SHIELD has anything to say about it."

"You did the deed, you gotta pay the price," Tony says with a downwards twist to his mouth. "Even if you did help out."  

"We know," Allen says. "It was the least we could do to start making amends. You, though, you sound like you have a price to pay yourself."

"Might have."

"Is that why your friend is waiting for you?"

Tony glances over his shoulder and finds Thor. "Ah, I'll just get going now then, get that drink."

"Enjoy it for us," Alvarez says and she and Allen offer Tony one last smile.

Tony waves once with a gauntleted hand and walks over to Thor, who brings Tony in for a one-armed embrace as soon as he is in reach. "It's greatly reassuring to see that you are unharmed, my friend."

"Just a few bruises and they didn't manage to get the arc reactor. A pretty great outcome, actually."

Thor's face darkens, his hand adjusting around  _Mjölnir_  like he is considering wielding it against some dark thought. "An attempt was made to steal your arc reactor?"

"Didn't work, obviously. My heart's still ticking. So. Sweep time?"

"Yes, and then to Fury. He waits for us."

"I'd rather skip debrief, but something tells me that wouldn't be such a great idea."

"That something is correct," Thor says gravely, frowning at Tony. "What you did was unwise. The Captain is—"

"I know what the Captain is," Tony states. "Out of everyone here, I think I'd know that best." It's nothing Thor can refute. "Come on, lead the way. The sooner we get this done, the better."

The facility is much bigger than what Tony had anticipated. He stations himself in the control room, working at the computers until he procures access to every door in the entire building and all the information on the mainframe.

The majority of labs are in state of near perfect order, housing not only weapons in the middle of completion, but bodies on tables and in chambers, some dead, some comatose, and others only temporarily unconscious. Clint a quiet presence at her side, Natasha's face is utterly blank as she watches SHIELD agents take the bodies out. Tony thinks there's something funny about how a lack of expression gives away more than it hides, but he makes sure not to let his eyes stray towards them too often. He also makes sure not to let his eyes stray towards Steve.

When Steve decides it's time to leave for debrief, Tony fires his boot thrusters without a word and launches himself into the air. "JARVIS, send a copy of everything we downloaded to SHIELD."

"Yes, sir."

"And the casualties. I need to know the casualties, JARVIS."

"Sir," JARVIS says softly. "You do not bear responsibility for this."

"Just tell me."

"Fourteen deaths. Fifty six injured. They are all hospitalized."

"I want their names."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS says, still with that softness, and Tony can't decide if he appreciates the tone or if it aggravates him. Pepper and Rhodey both call soon after that, within minutes of each other, and Tony ends the two conversations prematurely with brisk reassurances that he's fine.

He reaches New York and SHIELD HQ first, greeted by Fury and an unreadable expression in the briefing room. "You're still in one piece then, Stark."

"So far, so good. Were you expecting different?"

"I don't expect anything when it comes to you. You tend to blow that kind of thing out of the water."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Tony says and waits. Fury stares. "You're not going to chew me out?"

"Is that what you were  _expecting_?"

"So, now it's your turn to blow things out of the water, right. I get it. You're waiting for Cap to do it, instead. Alright." Tony leans against the wall and proceeds to ignore Fury, pulling up the data acquired from the facility and silently reading through it until the sound of the rest of the team arriving breaks his concentration. He takes off his helmet and tucks it beneath his arm.

"Someone," Fury says when everyone is stationary, his eye aiming for Steve like a dart, "please tell me what the hell went on today when you got to that base."

Steve sets his shield and cowl down on the table, but remains standing. "We didn't manage to get in without triggering the alarm, so they were evacuating while we were inside. Clint and another team of agents were watching the perimeter and they managed to capture everyone who tried to escape."

"Including," Clint says, "head honcho, Allesandro Brannex, who Tony had the good fortune of meeting. We're going to have our hands full with questioning these guys, there's a lot of them."

"It wasn't difficult to get through the first two floors," Steve continues, "but when we hit the first sublevel, we ran into a few problems, namely a lot of androids and a creature that Iron Man says is the result of a virus."

"I fought the creature," Thor says. "Natasha and Steven went onwards to find Tony."

Natasha adds, "and then Cap went on while I dealt with the androids on the first sublevel."

"I found Tony caught in a fight on the second sublevel," Steve says, his voice too steady. Tony knows instinctively that they're recalling the same moment.

"What exactly did AIM want from you, Stark?" Fury asks.

"Access to the suit at first, but what they wanted more was the arc reactor. Even having just this one in my chest would allow them access to a considerable amount of energy."

"And they didn't try  _persuading_  you to give it up to them?"

"You mean, why is my pretty face still pretty?" Tony says wryly. "They weren't going to persuade me that way. Not yet, at least. Brannex wanted to use Alvarez – you'll meet her, she gets friendlier the more you get to know her – as a punching bag instead. I managed to get us out of our cells by fooling the guards, the alarm went off, we ran across Allen, he and Alvarez went off to deactivate the androids and then," he makes a gesture towards Steve.

"We found bodies in the labs we went through, clear signs of human experimentation," Steve says. "And weapons. Weapons that need to be  _destroyed_ , Director." There's a warning implicit in his pointed tone.

Fury tilts his head slightly. "You're assuming we would keep them, Captain."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did," Steve replies, undaunted.

"The creature we fought," Thor says, weighing in with the same heaviness as Steve, "was the result of a hellish poison created by these people. It must not happen again. Even if you wish only to study them, you would risk lives if you were to hold such weapons in your possession."

"Accidents can happen and not the kind injury lawyers can help you out with," Tony says. "You should've gotten the data I sent by now. I've looked through some of it, found a couple of names, weapon designs."

"No locations?" Clint asks.

"Not yet, but if they're there, I'll root them out. Alvarez mentioned that she worked for Omnitech. You might want to check that if you haven't already. It's a front for AIM. Check out its subsidiaries while you're at it."

"Those explosions from today," Natasha says. "The public need to be reassured that we're doing everything we can to stop AIM from attacking for a third time."

"And who better to reassure them than Captain America?" Fury says.

The meeting moves onto briefly discussing press statements and they finish up quickly after that. Fury leaves, the rest of the team shuffling to exit behind him. Thor has to walk around them when Tony intercepts, a hand around Steve's arm to stop him in his tracks. Steve pauses, doesn't shrug Tony off, doesn't glance at him, either.

Tony wants to hold on, soothe the tension he can feel in Steve's body, but he makes himself let go once everyone is gone. "Steve, say something. I need you to say something."

"You  _need_  me to say something?" Steve says. "Why? So you can ignore it again?"

"No," Tony says quickly, speaking through a sharp ache brought about by Steve's doubt and the knowledge that Tony caused it in the first place. "I'm not going to – you know I don't ignore you. Not you."

Steve looks at Tony for the first time since stepping into the briefing room. Tony is immensely glad for the armour, enclosed around him like a brace to hold him up, because his knees almost buckle, weak with the readiness to kneel, his throat clogging up with apologies. "What," Steve says, "made this time so special then?"

"I saw Billups, I saw a chance, and I took it."

"Of course you did," Steve says, caustic. "Because either you think too much or you don't think at all."

"I did think about it," Tony says flatly, "and the pros outweighed the cons. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to stop me."

"I was planning on going with your idea. Today would've been better if we had been more prepared for it, but you denied us that and – and you know what? That's not even what angers me the most." Steve angles his body to face Tony and steps closer. In the suit, Tony is taller, but the few inches are insignificant when Steve somehow still manages to project himself as bigger, the sharpness of his eyes dragging Tony down. "Do you remember that time we sat down and we came up with rules to help us make this relationship work? Remember the first rule?"

Tony remembers. "No secrets."  

"That's right. No secrets. Especially not ones where you put yourself in danger."

"I wanted to tell you. I almost did, many times—"

" _Want_  isn't enough, Tony. You either do or you don't, and you  _didn't_." Steve's voice is louder now or maybe that's just his fury thundering in Tony's ears. "The Bond was telling me something wasn't right. I should've listened, I should've pushed, but I didn't because I knew you would've turned defensive. You always do."

"What? Wait a minute," Tony says with an air of disbelief, holding up a hand quizzically. "I  _always_  do?" His own anger is rearing its head, emerging fast from the chaos of Steve's. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of ticking bomb that you have to handle with kid gloves – unless, of course, that's what you think I am."

"You know I don't think that," Steve bites out, gaze firm and fierce. "But you don't always make it easy to talk to you, Tony and you know that, too."

"Oh, yeah, out of the two of us, if there's anyone who turns everything into an argument, it's me, right? Volatile mess that I am. As if you're some kind of saint who never makes a mistake."

"Don't give me that," Steve snaps. "I'm not saying that I'm a saint who never makes a mistake. I'm saying that I'm trying—"

"And I'm  _not_?" Tony shouts. (A voice screams in his head that he shouldn't have done that. Obie won't tolerate Tony raising his voice at him and Tony was supposed to know that after the first two times—) "Yes, I made a mistake," he hisses and he tries not to sound wounded beneath the anger, but it doesn't matter in the end, does it, not when Steve will feel it anyway. "Yes, it was reckless, and I'm sorry, I'll take the punishment for it, but don't you dare imply I'm not trying my best with you when you know, you of all people  _know_ , that I am."

Steve jerks back like he's been struck a heavy blow that even his shield cannot protect him from. He opens his mouth, shaping the first syllable of a retort Tony isn't sure he wants to hear, and then he clicks his mouth shut, visibly reining himself in with a deep breath. "This wasn't a good idea," he mutters, looking towards the door, expression regretful.

"What?" Tony asks. He loses his anger as abruptly as he had gained it. Steve draws away from him and it makes Tony feel inexplicably cold and lost.  

"Go home, Tony. Go home and – I'll see you when I get back. I'll ask for you."

"Ask for - how long will you be?"

"I don't know," Steve says, eyebrows dipping low in frustration. His jaw clenched, he marches out, leaving Tony to stare at the space where he had been standing. It feels incredibly like his punishment has already begun.

Tony hears the door open again, but doesn't turn his head to take a look. A hand settles on his shoulder, Thor's face heavy with concern. Tony waits until he's pulled himself together to say, "so you heard all of that, then? Natasha and Clint hanging around outside, too?"

Thor shakes his head. "They have already left."

"What are you doing still here?" Tony asks roughly. "Shouldn't you be keeping in line with your warrior brothers' code and be talking to Steve right now? Or do you think I need the comforting more because I'm his sub?"

"You see offence where there is none, Tony," Thor says, a gentle rebuke. "Steven is harsh when he allows his temper to control him, but you do not need me to tell you that words spoken in anger are not words that carry truth."

Tony feels a stab at his arc reactor and grits his teeth. "It wasn't meant to go like that," he says, unable to curtail the harshness of his voice. "I don't know what it was meant to go like, but it wasn't that. We weren't even arguing about what happened today, not really."

Thor sighs, a great rise and fall of his chest. "Situations such as this are unfortunately worse for you both. The Bond exacerbates your emotions to a much greater degree and clouds your better judgement. You must allow yourselves time to calm."

"Yeah, well, that's easier said than done." Tony rubs at his face tiredly and becomes aware again of where he is. "SHIELD isn't the place to be having this conversation."

Thor nods. "We should leave."

Tony pulls his helmet on and clangs his way back out into the open, wishing for the mess of anger and distress and disappointment that's taken root in his bones to be cut out of him. "JARVIS, I want that footage gone," he says and JARVIS quietly agrees.

They're back to the Tower in seemingly no time at all. Thor lands with a soft thump beside him on the terrace and follows Tony inside once the machine has finished removing the armour from his body. Tony promptly fixes himself a drink at the bar, fixes Thor one, too, and while Thor drinks his first glass, Tony pours a second for himself. The Bond is a clamour that he doesn't know how to calm and drinking won't help, it never does, but Tony will take whatever momentary distraction available.

The darkness in the room is only kept away by moonlight and the glow from his arc reactor. Hanging exposed, the dog tags clink against the arc reactor, lit up blue, and Tony places his hand over them both and then winces at an unexpected burst of pain across his knuckles. It fades quickly into just a trace of an ache, but remains as a persistent sensation. Beside him, Thor rumbles a soft, concerned inquiry.

"It's..." Tony gingerly touches his knuckles. He envisions Steve standing at a punching bag, gloves abandoned, knuckles bruising but still throwing blows. "Steve. He must be in one of SHIELD's training rooms."

"You feel his pain."

"Not all of it, just enough to tell me that something's not right. The Bond's helpful like that."

"Have I told you," Thor says, "that Bonding does not exist in Asgard?"

"No, you've never mentioned that."

"I have travelled to many worlds in my lifetime, but it is only in this world that such a phenomenon exists. Strange, isn't it?"

Tony drains his glass and sets it down with a loud clink and a scoff. "So, it's not just rare on Earth, but rare in the universe. That means I'm meant to feel extra special, doesn't it?"

"Its rarity makes it all the more special, that is true."

"Yeah, well, it's not all sunshine and rainbows. Right  _now_ , it's definitely not sunshine and rainbows."

"I do not think it is meant to be," Thor says. "I think it simply means the comfort of another presence at your side, one who understands you without the need for words, through times good and bad." He looks at Tony with those blue, blue eyes that are so like and unlike Steve's. "I think it means never being alone."

(Months ago, in Tony's bedroom, Steve said, "tell me what you want," and Tony had replied, "I don't want to be alone. I've never wanted to be alone.")

There isn't a reply that instantly bounds to the tip of Tony's tongue. Thor glances away first, removing any pressure to respond, and resumes emptying the bottle of scotch into his glass. Tony refrains from asking for a refill. He taps his fingers against the bartop, the occasional twinge in his knuckles.

Steve doesn't return within the hour like he had last time (one week and five days ago). The dread slowly spreading through Tony, stiffening his spine, only grows, makes him tap louder and faster.

"Tony."

"What?"

"You are restless."

"And you're still here. Are you really going to just sit here with me?"

"Should I leave?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yes," Thor says. "It is of no hardship to me to provide you with company."

Tony nods. The minutes continue to stretch on and his fingers continue their agitated rhythm against the bartop. Thor eventually covers Tony's hand with his and brings him to a stop.

Halfway through the second hour, Tony's mind begins a gradual descent into something quieter. He takes it as a sign, but it is a sign that only half relieves him when he knows that there won't be any real respite until after he is punished. "Why is he taking so long to come back?" he asks.

"What do you sense? Does he still remain caught in anger?"

"Disappointment," Tony says after a long moment and he doesn't say anything else after that.

They sit in silence, the wait gnawing at Tony's unsettled nerves, until JARVIS finally announces Steve's arrival in a subdued voice, as if he shares Tony's state of mind. "He is asking for you, sir."

Thor rises from his seat, picks up Mjölnir from the bartop, his cape swishing against the floor. "You will resolve this, I have no fear of that," he says. They step into the elevator and reach his floor first; he squeezes Tony's shoulder reassuringly before stepping out.

It's with a palpable tension dogging his every step that Tony finds Steve sitting on the couch, still mostly dressed in his uniform. He looks up as Tony nears and his face, although not happy, is gentler now.

"No, sit next to me," Steve says when Tony goes to kneel. He grabs Tony's hands, pulls him down onto the couch, and Tony catches sight of the raw skin at Steve's knuckles. "I owe you an apology, Tony. I lost my temper and that...conversation got entirely out of hand. I said something I shouldn't have, something I didn't mean, and I'm sorry."

It wakes Tony's dulled ire to remember. "That was a really shitty thing to say."

"Yes. It was."

"But you didn't mean it." His words sound like a question even to his own ears.

"No. No, I didn't," Steve says swiftly. "And I hate that I ever made you think for a second that I did. I really am sorry, Tony."

Tony runs his eyes over Steve's face, the remorse - genuine and deep, the Bond tells him - softening every inch of it, and finds it difficult to hold onto his anger. "I do understand why you were so angry, and," the words are still familiar and easy to reach for, so Tony reaches, "you're forgiven. Of course you're forgiven."

Steve squeezes Tony's hands and his mouth twitches, but it's nothing resembling a smile. "I was just – so frustrated. I am still, to be honest. What I was meant to say to you, what I might've been able to say properly if I had just calmed down, is that you were right, Tony, you  _are_  trying and I know that, which is why I don't understand why you'd keep something from me when you've been so good so far."

"I thought you wouldn't go with it and I knew you'd punish me when you found out. I'm selfish enough to try and delay that for as long as I can." Tony wants to ask how terrible of a sub that makes him.

"Our rules are there to help, Tony. No matter what, if you stick to them, you'll be fine.  _We'll_  be fine."

"I'm sorry," Tony says.

"It's not like I've never gone against orders or done something I shouldn't have," Steve says. "I ended up as Captain America mainly because of that. Sometimes, you need to. But this time, you really didn't."

"What if," Tony says, "what if I did it in the middle of a mission? Like a split-second decision that I didn't have the time to tell you about?"

"Depends on the mission. Even if it goes against orders, the right decision, the one that saves lives, is always more important and I trust everyone on the team to make that decision. But this was deliberate, Tony. You kept it quiet on purpose and I can't just let that go." Steve pauses. "It's why you've been distracted recently, isn't it?"

"I felt guilty."

Steve sighs. "But not enough to tell me."

"I'm sorry," Tony says again. "Are you going to punish me now?"

Steve lets go of Tony's hands. "Yes, I am."

 It doesn't matter that Tony was expecting it, he still tenses at the confirmation. "Will you add to my punishment because of the argument?"

"Why would I?" Steve asks. Tony stays silent and Steve's confusion doesn't last long. "Of course he did," he mutters with no little bitterness before firmly saying, "no, I'm not going to add to your punishment because we argued. You're allowed to get angry, too, Tony, and I should've stepped away instead of letting that conversation happen in the first place."  

Tony didn't really think Steve would, but he doesn't regret asking anyway. "Same thing as last time?"

Steve nods. "I want you to kneel for an hour." Tony must've let all his dismay show on his face, because Steve adds, "is that unreasonable? You can stop it anytime you want if you use your safeword."

"But that would defeat the point. No, it's." Tony shakes his head, steels himself. Steve will accept it if he uses his safeword, but that'll do nothing to alleviate Tony's guilt. "It's fair. I can do it."

"Eyes on the floor, no talking, and no moving. JARVIS will let you know when you've reached twenty and forty minutes, so you can take a five minute break for your knees. Now, go."

Tony does.

There isn't a book this time, but it's enough to know that Steve is behind him, only a short distance between them but distance that Tony can't undo for the next hour. (He wonders briefly why Steve sits there with nothing to keep him occupied, if Steve is claiming some punishment of his own.  _We_   _usually punish ourselves the most_ , Natasha had said, her face knowing and sad.)

Tony presses his fingers into his arms, restlessness sinking in like a deep itch, before he remembers not to move. He breathes out a long, slow breath in an attempt to ease how tense he has become and wills time to go faster. Time doesn't listen, crawling by unbearably slowly so that the first twenty minutes could have been twenty days.

The five minute break is almost inconsequential. An ache is sprouting in his knees, but along with all the other aches in his body, it's overshadowed by the thoughts raging in his head. He's angry, at himself for his mistake, at Steve for settling upon this punishment, at himself again for directing his bitterness towards Steve. Ashamed, Tony digs his fingers into his arms once more, nails biting into the skin.

"Tony," Steve says, and Tony freezes, thinks for a quick, hopeful moment that it's over, but Steve only says, "you're fidgeting. Is something wrong?"

It's tempting to say that there is. Tony nearly wishes he didn't care so much for Steve, didn't respect him and want to be perfect for him. "No," he replies. "Nothing's wrong."

"Then stay still."

Tony forces himself back into an imitation of a statue.

At forty minutes, his breathing is harsh and shaky, deafening next to Steve's unyielding silence. JARVIS' voice has him sitting back on his heels again, but it's not enough. Tony wants to turn around. He wants to apologise, to make promises to be better, to ask Steve to end this until he's lost his breath. He wants the white hot pain of an unrelenting cane rather than this terrible wait, this denial of the touch, voice, and attention that has become so precious to him because it is from Steve. It's the thought of being graced with Steve's soft, pleased smile that buoys Tony to the end.

JARVIS has barely finished stating, "it has been one hour," and Steve is already behind Tony, dragging him up onto his feet and into his arms. Tony is long past caring and presses himself against Steve with an urgency that his pride would have once disallowed. Steve seizes Tony's mouth in a kiss that Tony plays no other part in than to submit fully to what feels like a reclamation of some sort. He welcomes the rough repossessing, grows weak under it, the strength in his legs waning, and he lets it happen because Steve has him, Steve will take care of him.

Steve tears his mouth away from Tony's and that's a rough movement, too, as if it takes him considerable effort to separate them. "Don't you ever do that again," he mutters, low and stern.

"I won't," Tony says without hesitation. He can't manage to fist his hands into Steve's uniform, the material stretching too tight over Steve's body to bunch under his scrabbling fingers, and it frustrates him, adds to the distress in his voice, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."

"Me, too, Tony. Me, too." Steve leans his forehead against Tony's and says, "you're forgiven, of course you're forgiven." He wipes at the corners of Tony's eyes with his thumbs and they come back wet and with a gleam.

"Oh," Tony says. He hadn't realised. "I didn't. I'm not." He swallows thickly and blinks faster, his chest trembling, something rising slowly inside. He doesn't want it to come out, but it keeps moving, quietly insistent until it reaches his throat and he chokes around it.

"It's only me here," Steve says, everything about him soft and soothing now. "Let it go. Let it happen. Only me here."

Tony rests his forehead where Steve's neck meets his shoulder and drags in fast, shuddering breaths. Leather, soap, sweat beneath his nose, even Steve's scent is comforting. He forces his closed throat to work, "I wanted to tell you, wanted to, I couldn't, felt so  _guilty_."

"It's over," Steve says, resting his cheek atop Tony's head. "Just. Let me hold you, okay. I just want to hold you, just want to..." Steve's grip around him grows more secure and the bruises blossoming on Tony's body hurt some, but not enough for Tony to mention let alone separate. Steve murmurs the words Tony is yearning to hear, "you've been very good, Tony, very good. I can't tell you how proud I am of you right now for taking your punishment so well." His hands dip below Tony's shirt and steadily stroke reassurance right into his skin. "So proud."

Tony doesn't know how long they stand there, unwilling to focus on anything that isn't Steve and Steve's voice. After some time, Steve asks, "okay?"

Tony holds out for a moment before rasping, "yeah." He clears his throat and repeats himself louder. "Yeah. Are we okay?"

"Yes. Yes, we're okay."

"Just stick to the rules and we'll be fine."

"Exactly." Steve withdraws slowly, not far, just enough for them to stand face to face. Tony's hands clutch frantically at him anyway, resting at the small of his back in the end. Steve looks first at the arc reactor and then at Tony, a question in his eyes. Tony nods and Steve touches it, his fingertips warm where Billups' had been cold, his hand protective of the light, the whirr, and the heart kept alive by it. "You were terrified," he says, almost a whisper. "I thought I couldn't breathe because there was so much fear and I knew something was happening and then when I saw them, those bastards, I got  _so angry_ —"

Tony covers Steve's hand with his own. "That's how I knew you were close by."

"I could've killed them for that," Steve says with almost no inflection, the ghost of a vicious thought in his eyes.

Tony thinks again of paper. "You could've, but you didn't. You're better than that. It doesn't matter now, anyway."

Steve swipes at Tony's eyelashes with his free hand, cupping the side of his face afterwards. "No, it doesn't. What matters is that you're safe and you're with me."

Tony turns his face towards Steve's palm, nuzzling slightly, but his eyes remain caught by Steve's and he finds it enormously easy to admit, "I don't want to be anywhere else."

Steve kisses him again, not so rough this time but not gentle either. Tony is allowed to kiss back and he does it slowly, almost lazily, content with having his mouth shaped and reshaped by Steve's. Steve gives Tony's lower lip one final lick and says, "we need to get out of these clothes and shower, find something to eat after."

"Food has been set aside for you both in the common room, Captain," JARVIS says.

"Thank you, JARVIS." Unapologetically, Steve takes hold of Tony's shirt and rips it open, the remaining buttons scattering onto the floor. Tony isn't sorry to see the shirt go. Steve undresses him unhurriedly, hands lingering and caressing as he pulls off each article, careful where Tony's skin is lightly bruised. There is nothing heated about Steve's touch, no greater intention behind it, but Tony shivers regardless, as he suspects he always will under Steve's hands.  

"Cold?" Steve asks. 

"No," Tony says and Steve smiles. When Steve reaches up for the collar of his uniform, Tony grabs his hand before he can pull. "Can I do it?"

"Sure," Steve says after a moment. "If you want."

"I want." Tony rubs his thumb over Steve's knuckles, the skin now completely healed, and gently pushes it back down to Steve's side.

Stripping Steve out of his uniform is a thought Tony's entertained on several occasions and each time, he had imagined that there'd be flirtatious undertones to the moment,  teasing brushes of their skin and heady glances that would grow into something bigger and overwhelming. As he unbuttons the top half of Steve's jacket, unzips the lower half, and pushes it over Steve's shoulders, it's not quite lust that he feels, but an increasing need to touch. 

The undershirt is next to go, Steve obligingly lifting his arms up, and Tony letting the back of his hands skim up Steve's torso as he lifts the shirt off. He unclasps Steve's belt, places it onto the couch, and unzips his trousers, pulling them down strong legs and returning again to his knees. Steve steps out of them, but Tony doesn't stand up immediately, bending down low instead and pressing his mouth to Steve's ankle, waiting there for a long moment. Above him, Steve's breathing abruptly grows unsteady. Tony follows a slow path over calf, knee and thigh until the bone of Steve's hip is beneath his mouth, the taut stomach. He buries his face there, breathes in the smell of Steve's skin. He's not shaking, but it feels as if he should be.

"Tony," Steve says, voice at a much lower register. He slides his fingers into Tony's hair and tugs Tony's head backwards.

Mouth still parted, Tony looks up. "Yes?" His own voice is slightly breathless, hushed and unmistakably reverential, and the sound of it makes his own heart beat faster. In front of him, Steve's cock lengthens and Tony feels his body respond.

"Ask," Steve says. "Ask for what you need."

"Can I touch you?" Tony asks, but it tastes inadequate. That isn't it, that isn't all Tony wants. He looks at Steve's cock, licks his lips. "Can I have you in my mouth?"

Steve considers Tony's face, tries to glean something from it. "Is this to show that you're sorry?"

" _No_ ," Tony says. "It's because I want to. I'm not mixing up an apology with sex, but I want, I need this. I need to please you. I need to hear you say that I'm still good, I just – need." His voice drops to a whisper filled with longing. "Please, may I have this?"

"Shh, I understand," Steve soothes. "I understand." He strokes Tony's cheek with a thumb, still thoughtful, and Tony waits, mustering patience even with the neediness roiling through him like churning fire. Eventually, Steve utters, "Anthony," and Tony feels the first layer of himself come loose. "I'll give you what you need, but not here. Stand up."

Five minutes later, Tony is standing beneath a cascade of hot water, head tilted up towards the spray. He hears Steve step in, pull the shower door shut behind him, but doesn't get the chance to look down, Steve pressing his face into Tony's bared neck, nuzzling, kissing up the column to the soft flesh below Tony's jaw.

Tony's moan is almost inaudible beneath the sound of beating water. "Steve?"

"I haven't forgotten," Steve says, pulling away. The water sluices down his shoulders and over his body in rivulets that Tony almost bends down to follow with his tongue. Steve leans back against the wall, moving Tony with him so that the spray runs down only Tony's spine and then pushing Tony down onto his knees. He asks for Tony's hands and Tony offers them up for Steve to rests them on his hips. "They stay here unless you want to stop, clear?"

"Clear," Tony says, holding onto the fine cut of Steve's hips like they are anchors. 

Steve's cock is so close to his mouth that Tony doesn't hesitate to lean in, only to have Steve grab his hair tightly in warning. "I didn't say you could do anything yet, Anthony." Tony swallows, closes his mouth, and Steve eases his grip. "You need it so much, don't you? I can see it written all over your face, how hungry you are for my cock. You've been hungry for it ever since I told you that you'd have to wait." Three fingers come to rest at Tony's throat. "You keep swallowing," Steve says, curious, but his tone also implies that he knows exactly why.

Tony can't help swallowing again beneath Steve's fingers, his mouth growing too wet in anticipation, and Steve's smile is deliberate and shrewd. "Sometimes," Tony says, "sometimes, you walk into the room and I just want to drop to my knees for you right then and there."

"Even if there are others in the room?"

"Even if there are others in the room. I'll make it so good for you, Steve, if you tell me that I can."

"You can," Steve says, dropping his fingers from Tony's throat.

Tony leans in once more, pressing a kiss to the side of Steve's cock, the heated skin like sleek steel against his mouth as he slides his lips across. He licks a long stripe across the underside, tracing the vein, feeling both the jump of Steve's pulse and the twitch of his cock against his tongue. Reaching the tip, Tony laps at the slit and the pre-come collecting there.

Steve groans, a faint sound, one hand petting Tony's hair. With the other, he grasps his cock, Tony's brain stuttering at the sight, and orders, "open your mouth." Tony's mouth falls without a thought to it. "Don't look away from me," Steve adds, angling the hot head of his cock past Tony's lips, pausing there with his eyes steadfast and intense on Tony. Tony maintains the gaze and Steve murmurs heavily, "you look pretty like that, Anthony, very pretty. I almost want to keep you there."

Pre-come leaks out onto the flat of Tony's tongue; he can't help swallowing, can't help sucking or curling his tongue around the head, a moan of great want simmering in his throat. Steve inhales sharply, saying somewhere in that breath, " _yes_ ," as he slides himself further in and Tony sucks greedily again and again, savouring the firm thickness stretching his mouth open. "Your mouth is so, so good, Anthony," Steve says, voice growing hoarser, petting Tony's hair again, "can't believe how good it is."

Tony's eyes fall to half-mast in deep satisfaction. The steam from the running water is all around them, heat in the air and under his skin. He feels dizzy, the edges of his vision indistinct, and yet he's extraordinarily aware of Steve's cock gliding across his tongue in a slow, firm rhythm, of the pre-come thick in his mouth and the solid grip Steve has of his hair. A sweeter kind of heat swells inside Tony at the low, catching groans and murmurs of praise Steve is freely letting out.

Steve shifts a hand, cradles Tony's jaw almost comfortingly, and says, "take it, keep still and take all of it, I want you to." Tony whines his assent with a shudder, thinks maybe he wants to take it all even more than Steve wants him to, and opens his throat for the slow press that takes Steve in, in, in. "Perfect, that's so fucking  _perfect_ , Anthony, so hot and wet," and then the head of Steve's cock finally does hit the back of Tony's throat, wrenching an obscenely loud moan out of Tony, whose entire world goes bright for a beautiful moment.

His nose is touching the blond hair at the base, the smell of musk so strong, and Steve is so deep that Tony can't breathe. His cock jerks frantically, his balls constricting like his throat. " _Tony_ ," Steve gasps out, pulling back, "you, I felt that, how much you loved that." Tony begs without words for more and Steve thrusts in, over and over again, fucking Tony's mouth with a roughness that makes Tony wonderfully light-headed. "Your face, you should see," Steve murmurs in awe, a finger lightly touching the stretch of Tony's mouth, "like there's nothing better than right now, than my cock down your throat, God, you're so incredible."

Tony breathes out hard. He's wanted this, wanted it so much he ached with it, and now he's here, stuck in an intoxicating kind of paralysis where all he has to do is take everything Steve wants to give him, and every instance of it is perfect.

"You love this, you love this so much, you need it," Steve says breathlessly over Tony's endless moans, waves of his pleasure surging towards Tony through the Bond. "Gonna come now, gonna come, tell you to swallow, but don't think I need to, you're gonna do it anyway." Steve draws himself away from the back of Tony's throat slightly and Tony feels the imminent orgasm built up in the tensing of Steve's coiled muscles. He locks his mouth tight just as Steve comes and swallows, swallows, swallows everything that then fills his mouth, because Steve was right, Tony would've swallowed anyway. He doesn't dare close his eyes – Steve had said not to – and watches the perfect circle of Steve's gasping mouth, the heaving of his chest, with fascination. There are still no words for how gorgeous he finds Steve and if there are equations instead, Tony has no hope of finding them through the haze in his head.

"Yes, Anthony, yes," Steve pants, shaking, hips still moving in short thrusts until they don't anymore and his cock slips free from Tony's mouth, a weight that Tony begins to miss even as he gets to breathe in large, ragged gulps of air. An absentminded action, Steve gently pulls Tony forward a short distance, and Tony buries his face into Steve's stomach just as he did before, lax even with the pulse of his untouched cock, heavy between his legs. "You're amazing, you know," Steve says when he's more composed, petting Tony's hair still, stroking over his shoulder blades.

"Thank you," Tony croaks out, grateful for more than just the compliment. His voice sounds weak and needy, the syllables shredded, but he feels satisfied.

Steve keeps stroking. "You're welcome."

Tony stands up slowly when Steve tells him to, wincing at the ache in his knees. "Worth it," he says at the look of concern Steve gives him. "Completely."

Steve traces the outline of Tony's swollen, slick lips with his finger with a razor sharp focus. "The others will know. If they saw you, took just one look at your mouth, they'll know exactly what you've been doing with it."

Tony doesn't mind at all. "Let them know."

Steve smiles, his approval undisguised. His hand suddenly closes around Tony's cock. "I'll take care of this for you."

Tony bucks into the grip, throwing his arms around Steve's neck, and the sound he makes, a gasp that turns halfway into a whispery moan, is just another one in a long line stolen by Steve's mouth. He knows he won't last long, halfway there just from having Steve in his mouth, and Steve's strokes are short and brutal like they want to drag Tony to completion. Tony feels hot all over, feels out of control and pinned down at the same time, locked under the enthralling sway of Steve's hand and mouth. When he comes, it's with Steve's hand perfectly rough around his cock, making Tony's stomach tighten. When he comes, it's with just the tip of Steve's finger pressing teasingly into his entrance, Steve murmuring how he'll open Tony up soon, take his time with him until Tony's ready to scream, make Tony scream anyway. When he comes, Steve is still kissing him, his lips inescapable and gentle, drawing Tony back to him every time they part as if to hold Tony down while his thoughts turn to white noise.

Tony slumps, legs weak, and lets Steve take his weight, hold him through the aftershocks running up and down and through his bones. He rests his face against Steve's neck and Steve presses his lips to Tony's temple with a hum, promising, "I have you. I'm not letting you go."

Tony takes these words and their sincerity and embeds them into himself all over again, makes them a part of his ribs. His mouth feels raw, his body simultaneously heavy and unburdened, and his thoughts are slow but tidy. Everything Steve whispers into his ear, Tony takes them into himself, too, lingers on them the way he lingers on the feel of Steve's warm, wet skin against his.

Steve's words gradually diminish into silence and Tony does nothing more than stand where he is told to stand and soak in Steve's attention as Steve methodically scrubs them both clean.

"You with me now?" Steve asks after they've stepped out and he is gently drying Tony off.

"With you," Tony affirms with a hint of sluggishness. "What is it?"

"What is what?"

"You look like you have something to say."

Steve stares at Tony's mouth, his glance equally pleased and inquisitive. He drapes the towel around Tony's neck and pauses with his hands still holding onto the ends. "You told me that you didn't like being choked. In there, you let me. You  _wanted_  me to."

Tony tries not to be distracted by the beads of water rolling down Steve's face, disappearing under his jaw. "It's – different. I don't want anyone's hands around my neck, cutting off my breathing, and I don't want any  _toys_  in my mouth that could do the same."

"But you don't mind it when you're on your knees for me."

"No, I don't," Tony says. Steve reaches for another a towel to dry himself off and Tony wipes at the clouded mirror with a hand, looking at the flush in his face, the cherry red of his mouth. "I just like what I like."

"I'm not looking for some profound reason, Tony," Steve says. "You liking what you like is good enough."

Tony turns, reaches up, combs Steve's damp hair into some semblance of order. Steve brushes his mouth against the bruise at Tony's wrist and Tony swallows a joke about kissing it better.

They find fresh clothes that are beginning to acquire a new smell, an amalgam of laundry detergent, Steve's scent, and Tony's own. With no real desire to move beyond arms reach from Steve, Tony doesn't object even for show when Steve absentmindedly takes him by the hand and they head for the elevator.

"Dr. Banner called again, sir," JARVIS says. "I diverted the call to the rest of the team as you were occupied. They are still in conversation."

"Again?" Tony asks. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

"He called in the morning when he saw the news," Steve says. "I told him we'd handle it and he said he's planning on coming back."

"It's about time," Tony says.

Steve rubs the back of Tony's hand with his thumb, says, "I miss him, too," because he's not wary of speaking the words Tony finds his way around. The door slides open and Steve pulls him out, towards Thor, Natasha, Clint, the sound of Bruce's voice, and a stack of pizza boxes. Tony goes, because he'd follow Steve anywhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allesandro Brannex is taken out from the comics as is Prufrock and the creature, who is called Lifeform, but I changed what he looked like and what it could do from what it is originally.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting, reading and commenting. You are all amazing and I'm very grateful!

"We talked a lot and talked some more after that and finally," Bruce moves his queen and takes Tony's pawn, "decided to give us a go. Also, check." 

Tony frowns down at the board, says, "you asshole," and moves his king forward. "Not check."

"I've missed beating you at chess," Bruce says. The cup of tea sitting by his leg lends the air a light, citrusy scent and his hand is oddly elegant as he picks it up to drink, little finger sticking out.

"You sound nervous."

Bruce sips at his tea and moves his queen down again. "About beating you?"

Tony gives him a look. "Don't be dense. About you and Betty."

"I just don't want to mess it up."

His king is still in danger, so Tony relocates it. "Who says you'll mess it up? JARVIS, did you hear anyone say Bruce'll mess it up? No? See? You're fine. Have a little faith in yourself."

Bruce smiles faintly, tips the tea towards his mouth again, and then sets it back down onto the floor. His skin has been darkened by the sun of a hotter city, but there is another change, one more subtle – some of his jadedness has been lost, vanishing while in Betty's company. "I didn't think it at the time and I think I was a little harsh with you about it," Bruce says, sounding apologetic, "but I'm glad you told Betty where I was."

"One of my better mistakes, clearly," Tony says. "I'll accept your gratitude if it comes in the form of a steady supply of good food."

"I _have_ picked up a few new recipes, it'd be a shame if I didn't share them. Check, again."

"A great shame." Tony moves his king to a safe square and smiles knowingly at Bruce. "How does it feel, letting it happen, not denying yourself anymore?"

"Like you don't already know the answer to that," Bruce says pointedly. "I can't believe I had to find out through a phone call. You two couldn't get your act together before I left?"

"I'm sorry," Tony says solemnly, "our conflicting schedules wouldn't allow it."

"Good. To answer your question, it feels good." Bruce moves his king to avoid checkmate. "She was always there, always, she—" Bruce glances away to the side, not out of embarrassment, but as if Betty is close by and he wants to reach out and touch her. "She was just a phone call away but it wasn't a phone call I was willing to make. Until she took phone calls out of the equation and showed up at my doorstep." His quiet chuckle has a strain of self-deprecation that Tony hears in his own laugh sometimes. "What were we thinking, holding ourselves back?"

Bruce means it as a rhetorical question, but Tony feels compelled to provide an answer anyway. It's not a question he hasn't mused on himself, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, his mind still humming with energy the rest of his body didn't have. "Protecting. We thought we were protecting ourselves and I think we _were_ in the beginning, only we didn't realise it when, somewhere along the line, it changed." He chases Bruce's king with his queen. "Check."

"Now, who's the asshole?" Bruce comments. He doesn't make his own move, eyeing Tony over the top of his glasses in curiosity. "Changed into what?"

"Into something that wasn't so helpful anymore. Samson said yesterday that he thinks people aren't made to be alone." Tony remembers being a child, a teenager, standing in the middle of a crowd and still feeling a terrible sense of loneliness, because they did not understand him the way he wanted to be understood. "I think he's not wrong."

"No," Bruce says after a moment's thought. "I don't think he's wrong, either."

"This line of talk is encouraging more self-reflection than I was hoping to do today, Brucie."

"Should I apologise? You started it."

"A mature argument. I had no idea we were in a playground," Tony says, waiting for Bruce to move his king out of check and pushing forward his bishop. "You should bring Betty around sometime. We can build a time machine or something, make everyone else jealous."

"A time machine. Of course. Who says we don't know how to have fun?" Bruce asks dryly. "Let's ignore that Betty's a biologist while we're at it."

"I already am."

Bruce picks up his king, rolling it in between his fingers. It glints, reflecting in the light. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but I take it things are going well with Samson?"

"I like him. He's funny when he wants to be."

"I sense a 'but' coming up."

Tony shrugs. "Problem lies more with me than him. When he asks questions, I have to stop myself from shutting him down a lot of the time or deflecting." 

Bruce finally sets his king down where he wants it and says, "give it a few more sessions, he'll have you spilling every secret you've ever had. He has a way of unintentionally getting you to share things you wouldn't talk about with anyone else. Caught me off guard a few times."

Tony stares at the chessboard under the guise of considering his next move.

The day before, Samson had asked him about the early years of his relationship with Obie. Tony had never thought of himself as naive, has always despised that word, but it's what first comes to mind whenever he thinks back to those years and the ease with which Obie had toyed with him. Remembering and recounting had tested his patience and it was only knowing that he needed to remember that kept him talking, however much he had to grit his teeth.

They had also spoken about the aftermath of the incident with AIM and Tony had briefly mentioned the argument. Samson had looked at him, the cogs in his brain clearly working away, and asked, "what's really bothering you?"

Tony had answered after a sigh. "Steve's being more cautious with me right now. I know it's because he still feels guilty about what he said."

"But you don't want him to be."

"No, of course not. It's not like there's anything wrong with how he treats me normally. And I've already forgiven him for what happened, just like he forgave me."

"Then maybe you should remind him that it works the same way for both of you," Samson had suggested. "Sometimes Doms need the reminding."

When Tony had returned to the Tower after the session, he searched Steve out and did exactly that.

"You're going to hurt something if you keep thinking that hard," Bruce says, pulling Tony out of his thoughts. Tony takes in the chessboard again and moves his knight. Bruce counters and says, "you do seem a little tired, actually."

Tony has the sudden urge to get up and make himself coffee. "It's nothing. Just didn't get much sleep last night. You know how it is." He had dreamt again of the arc reactor being stolen, picked out of his chest by a faceless man with cold fingers. No stranger to what their brains can spin from distorted memories, Steve had waited, silent and watchful, until Tony turned towards him and let himself be wrapped up in sleep-warm skin. "It's nothing," Tony repeats to convince Bruce's perceptive eyes to look elsewhere. He moves his rook. "Check."

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "Suddenly my odds of winning don't look so good."

"I've been playing against the chess master of this domain. He's ruthless and I've honed my skills."

"Speaking of the chess master, his birthday is coming up," Bruce says, avoiding checkmate again. He finishes off the rest of his tea, sets it down by his leg again.

"I know. He's actually born on the fourth of July. It's ridiculous."

"It'd just be wrong for Captain America to be born on any other day."

"An unbelievable wrong," Tony agrees. The last birthday they had celebrated was his own and it had been a smaller, quieter affair than any of Tony's previous birthday parties, Pepper deeming it the best party of his she had ever attended. "He says I don't have to get him anything, but that's a complete lie. Whenever someone says that, what it really means is 'you better get me something or you'll be subjected to passive aggressive treatment in the near future'. But what are you meant to get a guy for his ninety fifth birthday? A board game?"

"For a ninety five year old, sure. For a twenty eight year old, maybe not. It doesn't necessarily have to be _getting_ something for him. Maybe do something."

"What are you suggesting, Dr. Banner?" Tony says with a leer.

"Nothing," Bruce replies with a roll of his eyes. "I just said that to get the ball rolling. You can figure out the rest and _keep_ everything you figure out to yourself. There's only so much I want to know about my friends."

"You're missing out."

"I think I'll live."

"Pepper used to pre-emptively buy her birthday presents from me. I'm responsible for at least seventy percent of her shoes collection. Then again, I'm responsible for seventy percent of her stress."

"Sounds like a fair trade off to me." Bruce studies the chessboard and then sighs in resignation, making a hopeless attempt at escaping check.

Tony moves his second rook in return, grinning. "Checkmate."

+

The bag is small, nondescript, and has been left out on Steve's desk, perhaps deliberately because Steve knows how weak Tony is against his own curiosity. It sits untouched for a day before Tony proves Steve right. When he ambles out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, tired in a good way after a session of boxing with Clint, and sees the bag again, Tony gives in and takes a look inside.

The scarf shimmers gold, incredibly soft against his fingers when he pulls it out and holds it up in front of his eyes. The fabric is transparent and the wall beyond it comes through as clear as ever, simply tinted a faint bronze like a sepia photograph. Tony thinks of how he's been spending more time keeping his eyes shut, Steve's hand sitting heavier than any blindfold over his closed lids, but eventually his hand will be replaced. It's the only one reason for Steve to have bought the scarf.

Very briefly, he considers tying the it around his head, but wavers, his want, as it often is, soured by the onset of anxiety. Tony's placing the scarf back into the bag when it happens, the vicious twist in his chest, sharp enough to lodge there like it's trying to fuse with his heart. He knocks the bag over, holds onto the desk to keep himself steady, but how can he stay steady when the last person from his past, the last person to know him when he was only small, irrelevant Steve Rogers, is now gone? His nails digging into the surface, Tony breathes in deep to ease the speed at which he's shattering to pieces inside, as if he'd never been made of flesh and blood at all, but brittle, brittle glass.

"Sir," JARVIS begins, concerned. 

"I'm fine," Tony snaps without meaning to. "Steve isn't. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No, sir. Should I sound an alert?"

"No, don't." Tony rights the bag and begins a wild search for his phone, a thought looping in his head, the most terrible song in his brain - she's gone, she's gone, gone, gone. "That's not the kind of assistance he needs." He finds it in the pocket of the jeans he carelessly threw onto the bed.

_"Hey, it's Steve. I'm not here right now – shut up, Tony, I'm recording – but leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

"Steve," he says heavily. Too much force in it and he reigns himself in. "What's happened? Where are you? Call me. As soon as you get this, call me."

Tony stares intently at the phone, but it doesn't produce a faster response. He drops the phone back onto the bed and dresses quickly. His phone remains silent and Tony calls again, leaves a second, more harried message.

There are some bleak days where Steve is quieter than usual, lost to Tony in a way Tony doesn't always know how to undo. If he isn't in the gym, Steve will spend more time in his art studio, working with paint, clay, wood, spontaneously spraying over the mural spread across the far left wall and replacing it with a new image. On those days, there isn't much for Tony to do but provide silent company, resting his head on Steve's knee when he can and letting Steve idly stroke his hair, his bare skin. Sometimes, it goes beyond silent company and Steve has Tony laid out on the bed, on the floor. He touches and tastes like he's escaping into Tony's body and Tony's sounds, returning from them some time later with a calmer countenance.

But today is different. This grief is fresh, born only today, and stronger because of it, filling him up like water in the lungs (Tony knows firsthand what that feels like).

He restlessly paces up and down the length of the room, but his patience burns out easily. Tony's grabbing his shoes, phone, car keys, before he knows it, heading down to the garage.

_"Hey, it's Steve. I'm not here right now – shut up, Tony, I'm recording – but leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

"I'm driving over to the park near Marie's bookshop. If you're there, stay there. If you're not..." Tony trails off and leaves the message unfinished, driving onto sun-baked roads. It's humid and uncomfortable, the heat inspiring sweat to bead across the skin, but Tony drives on single-mindedly and is rewarded for it.

Steve's the only one in the park, sitting on the same bench he had sat on the first time Tony came to find him here and staring down at the ground. In the bright sunlight, he is radiant – the sun will always love Steve, always – and he is the loneliest figure Tony has ever seen.

Tony takes a seat beside him, their knees nudging.

"I know you've been calling me," Steve says slowly. "Sorry for not picking up. I just wanted to be alone for a bit."

"Do you want me to go?" Tony asks even though he doesn't want to. It might actually hurt if he has to walk away from Steve right now. "I can go if that's what you want."

"No," Steve says, looking up only to stare straight ahead. His face is empty, eyes glossy, long eyelashes gleaming like wet gold. Tony thinks Steve always seems older when grief has caught a hold of him. "No, I don't want you to go."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Tony replies. He waits, squinting at the sunlight, vaguely wishing that he had brought his sunglasses.

"Peggy," Steve says, two syllables that amplify the ache in Tony's chest into something monumental. "Peggy's gone."

There's a shocked delay between the moment Steve finishes speaking and the moment Tony understands his words. He threads the fingers of one hand through Steve's limp ones and holds on tight. "I'm sorry," he says and it tastes sour in his mouth, tastes like a platitude, but he still means it. He can't look at Steve and the despair in his face and not mean it.

It takes him a while, but Steve gradually matches the strength of Tony's grip. "She passed away in her sleep sometime during the night. Sharon called to tell me. The funeral's next week. Tuesday. I want to go. I'm gonna go."

"Take my private jet," Tony says. "Take Agent Carter with you, too, maybe."

"She's heading back on her own, I think, but I'll ask her anyway. She'd appreciate it. Thank you, Tony."

"Don't mention it. It's the least I can do."

"I should've gone back," Steve whispers. "I should've gone to see her again. Why didn't I go back just one last time?"

"She didn't want you to," Tony says, only repeating what Steve had shared with him one dreary night when he was feeling forlorn. "One last good memory and then she wanted you to move on. That's what you told me she said."

Steve looks down at their hands, imagining, Tony suspects, Peggy's. Tony has long, calloused fingers with nicks from his work that Peggy wouldn't have, with strength that old age has steadily seeped out of Peggy's body, but his hand is still smaller in Steve's just as Peggy's would have been.

Tony's glad that this park is so often overlooked. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he does it anyway, shifting closer, running his free hand through Steve's hair. It's awkward, using his left when Steve's sitting to his right. Steve lowers his head, lifting their hands at the same time, and presses his forehead against the back of Tony's hand. It comes across as an attempt to clutch for some sorely needed strength.

"She waited," Steve murmurs, disbelief in his voice. "Did I tell you that? She told me she wore that same red dress she was wearing when she walked into that bar in London and she went to the Stork Club to wait for me."

It's nothing sharp this time. It's nothing trying to break Tony into splinters. It feels like a secret is unfurling beneath Tony's skin, something too true and sacred to be housed in the body of someone like him. He knows immediately that this warmth, running deeper than any well, so strong and suffusing him entirely, is the abiding affection Steve will always hold for Peggy.

Tony nearly closes his eyes under it, humbled. He takes a breath and says, "she wanted to believe, I guess. She wanted to hope." He doesn't wonder whether or not he would have waited, too. Anyone would wait for Steve. Anyone would believe in him. For those who know him, it's never a question.

"I was just several decades too late."

"I don't know about 'too late'," Tony says carefully. "In the end, no matter how long it took, you still came back. At least, if I was her, that's the way I'd look at it."

Steve stops examining the veins of Tony's hand and Tony presents him with a half-smile, a small shrug, when he looks up. "So you do know how not to be a cynic sometimes," Steve says.

"Only sometimes, though," Tony makes sure to clarify. "You wonder, don't you? What it would have been like if you hadn't crashed the plane."

"I used to do it all the time before. There's no use in it, in what-could-have-beens, and I try not to live in the past, but..."

"It's only natural for you to wonder. I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"I used to wonder about our future back then, too, imagine what we'd do once the war was over. I didn't expect much, 'cause life never really turns out the way you want it to, does it, but I thought at least we would've been together." Between one blink and the next, a droplet falls from the corner of Steve's eye.

Tony leans forwards and wraps an arm around Steve. Their hands untangle, Steve shifting into the embrace, turning his face down against Tony's shoulder. Tony brings up his other arm to enclose him fully. Steve doesn't make much sound beyond small, sharp inhales, a shudder sweeping through his body that Tony first tries to quell with his hands.

"You know how you always say that I have you?" Tony asks before he can stop to re-think himself, "that I'm not alone?" Steve nods, shuddering once more. "It's the same the other way around, too. Just remember that."

Steve pulls back without fully retracting his arms, keeping them looped lightly around Tony's waist. His cheeks are damp and red, his eyes still bright and miserable. He's seen better days, but Tony can't think of a single one right now. Steve snuffles and asks, "will you go with me to the funeral?"

There's no reason he should be caught off guard. Tony still is. "What?"

"The funeral," Steve says, staring at the surprise that must be plain as daylight all over Tony's face. "Will you go with me?"

"You want me to—" Tony stops. Of course Steve wants him to. There's no one else he'd ask.

Steve shakes his head, rethinking himself. "No, you're busy, don't worry about it, you've still got work left to do—"

Tony can't listen to it, feeling like a fool for even beginning to voice his confusion. "Steve," he interjects firmly, "if you want me to go along with you, I will. Pepper doesn't need me and I'm not busy with anything that can't wait." Steve looks so grateful that it nearly slashes Tony open. "Even if I was, I'd drop it anyway."

"You're not as terrible at this as you think, you know."

"What, at comforting? I _am_ terrible at it or are you wilfully ignoring what just happened a second ago?"

Steve clearly is wilfully ignoring it, because he just says, "thank you, Tony," for the second time and wipes at his eyes, managing a tired smile. Tony wants abruptly and fiercely to kiss him until the colour has returned to his face.

Instead, he shakes his head. "Don't even say that, don't _thank_ me. What else am I supposed to do, Steve? Just sit here and watch you while you're," he stops and looks away for a moment. Steve is one of the few who make him want to be selfless.

Steve follows Tony's glance around the park. "I'd forgotten we're still outside. We should go home so I can make a pathetic attempt at getting drunk."

Tony makes a soft noise of understanding. "Yeah, if you're sure." He stands up and offers his hand. Steve takes it, the strength of his fingers reassuring, and lets Tony lead them both back to the car.

At the Tower, Steve goes on ahead while Tony grabs glasses and a bottle from the bar before following Steve up. Stepping out of the elevator, he hesitates, looking down at himself. It's his habit now to strip down when entering their suite, but the thought of doing so today strikes him as wrong.

"Tony?" Steve calls out, the sound coming from their bedroom.

"I'm here," Tony says, walking in to find Steve sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back against the doors of the closet and his hands perched on the edges of the box that once belonged to Tony's father. He's completely still, immersed in memories Tony doesn't share. Tony thinks he's losing Steve again, but then Steve stirs.

Tony pours into a glass and hands it over. "Do you need me to do anything else?" he asks with deliberate lowness so that the real question resounds loud and clear.

Steve shakes his head, taking the glass, draining it empty, and extending his hand again for a refill. He finishes the second glass as quickly as he had the first and places it away to tug Tony down onto the floor next to him. "Just sit with me for a while."

Tony abandons the glass and bottle in his hands and promptly curls in close under Steve's arm. He leans his head down onto Steve's shoulder, relaxing his body into a soft weight, a quiet and firm reassurance of company. Steve strokes Tony's hair, the side of his face and neck. It's to comfort himself, but Tony derives comfort of his own and a simple pleasure, too, from being the one to provide Steve with it.

"Did Howard show you everything inside here?" Steve asks.

"No," Tony says. He never got the chance to investigate even secretly the contents of the box while his father was still alive. "My dad shared stories and I saw him with the box sometimes, but he never asked me to come take a look with him. I didn't bother with it, either, after he died." He was encumbered by too much bitterness to trawl through his father's belongings and, until Steve had come along, opted to ignore their existence. Watching Steve's hand dip inside, he pushes that bitterness aside.

A photograph is what comes out first. The Howling Commandos are raising their arms, mugs of beer in their hands. Howard doesn't have a drink (not one that is visible, anyway) but there's an unlit cigar hanging from his smirking mouth and beside him is Peggy, wearing a dark leather jacket that reminds Tony of the one Steve owns. Fondly, she is looking at Steve and Bucky, who stand at the front with their arms slung over each other's shoulders, wide, matching grins threatening to split their faces in half. They don't seem like soldiers in the middle of a war, but a rowdy group having a good time, bright laughter spilling out of their eyes and mouths.

Steve delicately touches Peggy's face with the tip of his finger. "This was in Paris. Bucky and Dugan kept asking Jacques to teach them a few French pick up lines, but Jacques insisted that the French are more sophisticated in their courting. Between that and Howard flirting with her, I think Peggy lost hope in men around sixty four times."

Tony grins and Steve laughs, the first easy sound Tony's heard from him since finding him at the park. He wants to keep it that way and quickly says, "tell me more."

Steve rubs the back of his fingers against Tony's cheek and maybe he knows what Tony's doing, but he still says, "sure," and reaches into the box again.

+

The heat in Winchester is cooler than the heat of New York, but it makes Tony's suit stick to his skin all the same, makes it feel like he's encased in cardboard. They're standing at the back, Steve beside him with the perfect composure of a soldier standing at attention, and two feet away is Fury, an unexpected face but Tony had allowed himself only a moment of surprise. It's not a hard leap to make; Fury had worked with Tony's father and Tony's father had worked with Peggy and the wires naturally crossed together at some point. Absently, Tony wonders what Peggy's relatives are making of the sombre man with the eye patch.

The funeral is brief and it's entirely selfish how glad he is about that. Watching Steve, who must have thought he had moved past mourning, be thrown into it again is a dreadful thing to be a spectator to. (Who did you have when you did this the first time round, Tony sometimes thinks when he looks at Steve. It's a question he'll never ask out loud, because he's certain he already knows the answer and the answer is no one.)

With the service finished, the crowd begins to split into smaller groups and meander towards the hall nearby for the wake. Steve makes no such movement. Tony glances at him sideways from behind his sunglasses.

"I want to say a few things," Steve says. It's the third time Tony's heard him speak since he woke up and found Steve already dressed and sitting at the edge of the bed, blank-faced. "To Peggy."

"Take your time, I'll wait here," Tony says and watches Steve walk closer to Peggy's grave in measured steps. He looks away once Steve stops. Even if he won't be able to hear what words Steve will softly utter, the moment to come feels too private for him to continue watching.

Tony catches Fury's eye. Fury nods at him in acknowledgement, walks over though it seemed as if he was prepared to leave right away. Tony considers commenting on Fury's attachment to his long, leather coat, but what he ends up saying without any preamble is, "she worked for SHIELD, didn't she?"

"One of our first and finest," Fury replies. "It's hard to find a woman like Peggy Carter these days. I know Rogers would agree."

'Woman' and not 'agent'. Someone who Fury saw more than an asset, more than a fast mind and even faster reflexes. A friend even. Any other time, Tony would've made a remark on it. "Of course he would."

"You would've met her yourself if she hadn't returned to England before you were born."

"It never gets any less odd how we're all connected."

"If I was a different guy, I might say something about destiny."

"Good thing you're not a different guy."

Fury makes a small noise, maybe in agreement, maybe in amusement. He seems to be equivocating and Tony waits for him to speak, but Fury apparently thinks better of it and turns away to leave. "I hope I don't have to see you again anytime soon, Stark."

"The sentiment is returned," Tony says to Fury's back.

Steve is still standing at the grave when he takes a look and Tony waits a little longer, joined eventually, quietly, by Carter. The flight over to England had given Tony some time to learn that she is as beautiful as Steve said, that she grew up on stories about Steve Rogers just as Tony did, and that her confidence and practicality were learned from Peggy, but her dry humour and moments of cynicism are her own.

Carter has vivid eyes, sharp eyes, but they're kinder when they look at Steve. Perhaps they always were, from the moment she saw him. "Will you be coming to the wake?"

"Depends on Steve really," Tony says.

Carter nods. The small studs in her ears sparkle. "You didn't have to come along with him, but it's good that you did, anyway."

"That's not true," Tony says. Steve is finished now, turning around, walking back to them, and Tony thinks there is no reason for Steve to have to do this alone. "I did have to come along." 

"Sharon," Steve says. It's a warm enough greeting, but the line of his body is rigid, like there's something hard trapped under his skin, refusing to give leeway. "I didn't get a chance to say hi to you. How are you?"

"I'm okay, Steve. I was just wondering if you were attending the wake."

Steve hesitates. "Will it be terrible of me if I don't?"

"Not at all," Carter says. "Thank you for coming in the first place. I know it's not easy."

"I was always going to," Steve says solemnly.

"I know," Carter says in understanding. "I'll be staying for a few more days, so you don't have to wait for me to take the jet back home." She looks at Tony. "I know I've already said this to you, but—"

"I'm allergic to gratitude," Tony says, "so I'd advise you not to finish that sentence." Steve's mouth tries to shift from its small, sad shape into something that's meant to resemble amusement, but doesn't quite manage it. Tony decides that they need to leave and leave quickly. "Hey, so, you should get going," he says to Carter, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the hall. "There are most likely people waiting to talk to you."

"Tony's right," Steve says. "I'll call you later?"

"Sure." She steps away, only to reconsider and turn back around, her gaze falling on Steve. "It's sad that she's gone, but I don't think Aunt Peggy would want us to be too sad today. She'd want us to remember all the good memories we have of her."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Yeah, she would. Thanks. I'll - remember that."

Carter nods at both of them and leaves. As she recedes into a smaller and smaller dot, Tony nudges Steve's hand with his own. "Hey."

"Hey." It's instinct to lean in, but they remember where they are and hastily pull back at the same time. "Hotel," Steve says.

"Yes. Hotel. Good idea."

The taxi they arrived in is still waiting for them and Tony makes sure to tip the driver extra when they reach the hotel they're staying at. He catches up with Steve by the elevator in the lobby, standing next to him at a polite distance that only says they are friends and nothing more. The two rooms he had booked are next to each other, connected by a shared bathroom that Tony uses to slip into Steve's room.

He closes the door and leans back against it, studying Steve, who has sat down at the foot of the bed with his head bowed. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

"Not really," Steve sighs. "There isn't much left to say that I haven't already said already."

"We can go home tonight if you want. Or even right now."

"Tonight. Tonight sounds good."

"Okay," Tony says, pulling out his phone to send off the necessary message. (There are two other messages, one from Pepper, the other from Bruce, and they both ask after Steve. He sends back the same reply: _He's okay. I've got a handle on this. I think._ ) Pocketing his phone and toeing off his shoes, he moves over to the windows and draws all the curtains shut until the room is shrouded in a hazy semi-darkness.

Steve is unresponsive to the change, still staring at the carpet, jaw tight, shoulders unnaturally straight. The picture is entirely wrong. Tony wants to take it all away, return to Steve his natural ease with the world.

He kneels down in front of Steve and begins to ease off Steve's shoes one after the other and set them aside. Shuffling forwards into the space between Steve's legs, he reaches up to push Steve's suit jacket down his shoulders and arms. Steve frees his hands from the sleeves of the jacket but otherwise does not move, watching Tony closely. Tony turns his attention to Steve's tie, pausing with the silk tangled in between his fingers when Steve murmurs his name and cups his cheek.

"I know I haven't been great company recently," Steve says, pained. "And I haven't been a very good Dom for you, but give me some time and I'll. Be back on my game, I s'pose."

Tony stares, speechless, and then unpicks Steve's tie with brusquer tugs of his fingers, furiously saying, "Steve, I don't _care_ about that, I don't – you make it sound like you've been terrible for days on end when you haven't." He throws the tie down onto the bed and it makes an entirely unsatisfying whisper of a sound as it falls. "You're going through a rough couple of days. I'm not expecting you to act like you're okay and pretend that everything is normal when you're not and it isn't. I'm not that much of an asshole."

"No. No, you've been perfect," Steve says in that frank, unvarnished way of his. "Don't think I haven't noticed everything you've been doing for me, because I have. I don't know why anyone has ever told you that you're not a good sub."

Tony is unbuttoning the first two buttons of Steve's shirt and hearing the praise, fumbles with the second one, feeling warmed. It had only seemed logical to anticipate Steve's needs and ensure that they were satisfied before he even needed to ask. "I guess I can be," he says, successfully pulling the button through the opening, "for the right person." He runs his hands up Steve's arms, to his shoulders and down his spine, feeling the tightness packed hard beneath. "You're so tense."

If anything, Steve only tenses more. "I feel like I could punch through a wall of adamantium right now."

"And ruin your hands in the process. It might not be completely worth it."

"I just need something, something to," Steve doesn't finish his sentence, closing his eyes. Nothing more needs to be said, anyway.

Tony rubs Steve's back in slow circles, to soothe that unyielding wall and, if he's honest, just to maintain touch. "I can think of something for you to focus on."

Steve's hand shifts from Tony's cheek to the back of his neck, fingers and thumb curling around Tony's nape. He rests his forehead against Tony's at an angle, the tip of his nose pressing into the side of Tony's, and says, "Tony," in a grated voice and nothing else, but he'll say yes, Tony already knows. Steve wants it too much, needs to centre his thoughts on the here and now, make Tony as vulnerable he himself feels just so he can calm that vulnerability, protect it and undo it.

"That's a tempting offer," Steve says. Their breathing is harried but in sync, mouths barely an inch apart, open like they're giving life to each other. Tony still has the taste of their last kiss on the insides of his cheeks. "A broad one, too. You don't know what I might want to do."

"We can talk about it then, make it less broad, but I don't think you're in the mood right now to do anything we haven't already done before."

Steve opens his eyes. There's an intent gleaming bright and scorching in them that Tony's body recognises even before Tony himself does, his limbs falling into compliance, a soundless _yes_ and _please_. (Half the time Tony thinks Steve controls his body with just a glance better than Tony does. The thought would be unnerving if it was anyone but Steve.)

"I didn't bring anything."

"I did," Tony admits. "Presumptuous, maybe, but." The Bond is beginning to turn frantic, a summer breeze gaining too much strength, transforming into a storm. "Use me if you need to," Tony says, quiet, beseeching.

Steve says, "yes." He says, "Anthony," and kisses Tony. It's desperate and wild, hungry slides of their lips that are hotter than the sun burning steadily outside, Steve searching for something, Tony wanting him to find it. Tony's eyes fall shut and he lets it consume him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought some Steve feels were in order.


End file.
